


Barnes Manor

by steviewrites



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: (yet), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arnim Zola is a villain in every universe, Author is bad at tags, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes is 33, Bucky barnes' metal arm, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Steve Rogers, Flashbacks, Gothic, Gun Violence, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Greek Mythology, Minor Character Death, No Sex, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Playing Fast and Loose with Specific Historical Details, Postal Worker Steve, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Roman Catholicism, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers is 21
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7436892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steviewrites/pseuds/steviewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Barnes is the only surviving member of a wealthy New York family, and sole owner of the famed Barnes Manor. The little town of Clyde whispers about what's behind those perpetually closed dark wooden doors. Some say James is a ghost, some say he died in the West, some say he still lives, driven mad by his solitude. Now, for the first time in 20 years since a fire took James' mother and sister, the Manor gets a visitor.</p><p>It's none other than Steven Rogers, the scrappy blond who delivers to James the piece of post that changes both their lives forever.</p><p>Together they unravel government conspiracies, their own tumultuous pasts, and the forbidden things they feel for one another.</p><p>-</p><p>This work is purely fiction. All characters belong to Marvel, save the select few that were actual people. (I.E. Stan Lee does not own John D. Rockefeller.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things -  
> I don't know what subjects you could major in at Princeton at this time, so if Military Strategy wasn't one of them, forgive me. It works.  
> I don't know if there was a blizzard in that area in January of 1861, or if it was the worst in a hundred years. I don't even know if there's records of that.  
> If you live in Clyde, NY - sweet! I literally just chose the location because it seemed to be the right geography on Google Earth. Let me know if there's anything I can correct as far as that goes.  
> I'll start making a playlist of the songs I listen to as I write this. It'll help with the mood and atmosphere that's swirling around in my brain so you can experience the story deeper if you'd like.  
> Enjoy! I'm hoping to make this multi-chapter, let me know how you feel and what you'd like to see! I appreciate all feedback.

Barnes Manor was a sprawling estate covering over two hundred acres of farmland and forest, rich with the best soil of the northeast and perfect for raising sheep and cattle. It had been built in the late eighteenth century by Michael Barnes, a banker who had come to the New World as a successful, young man and remained there as New York state’s premiere banking mogul. He’d married one Harriet Crawford and together they moved to the country, where Michael hired the best builders and craftsmen from around the area to build the home of their dreams. It was a 10-bedroom, 4-story dark brick and stone behemoth, with spires and arched windows which loomed like dark eyes over the rolling landscape. The three pastures were for horses, cattle, and sheep, each field varying in size and quality, so they tended to rotate the animals through every couple of months or so. There was a servant’s quarters, arguably too big compared to other mansions’ in the area, but two-story and comfortable regardless. To the south of the servant’s quarters was the blacksmith’s shop, as well as the spinning room and the smokehouse. The gardens spread over the east, luscious under the morning sun, and the greenhouse sat just to the far left of the mansion as you came up the entrance road. Between the blacksmith and the servant’s quarters sat the stables, as well as the repository and compost pile. There were three barns, each one leading out to its respective pasture and each one identical in its dark wood and sturdy, cavernous architecture. The rest of the fields were used for crops, from corn to soy to bean, rotating every season like the animals through their pastures. The remaining forested area was used for hunting and fishing.

 

It had been a fixture in the fishing and farming village of Clyde ever since the small town was established. The location was that of a French trading post at the time that the Manor was constructed, which left to the Barneses a sense of loneliness amidst their extravagant wealth. They had a son and sent him off to boarding school as soon as he was old enough, knowing that the public school closest to them was not only insufficient in its academics, but also in its financial stability. Mr and Mrs. Barnes had been raised in money in London and New York respectively, and wanted only the same for their child. They had no heirs other than little George, who attended St. Dominic’s All-Boys Boarding School until the age of eighteen.

 

Some of the townspeople of Clyde believe that the elder Barneses went insane from their solidarity, others think they left to London where Michael had family and connections. Yet others claim they killed one another, and some say the young servant girl did it. The house was shrouded in mystery, until one day, George returned with an inheritance and a college diploma.

 

He married the pastor’s daughter, a fiery brunette with eyes the color of January. They fell deeply in love and together they restored the old estate, bringing it even more esteem than it had ever had. George and Winifred Barnes hired dozens of farmhands, servants, and craftsmen to create a new era for the manor. George invited his friends from university and their wives to lavish parties, some of them traveling hours from other states to attend the event that George Barnes and his wife hosted. They provided only the finest of whiskeys and scotches, along with caviar and filet mignon and any vegetable one could imagine. They hired musicians, from cello players to opera singers to four-piece bands. Sometimes they set tents up outside, on the expansive lawns, and they sat at picnic tables painted white as the clouds in the summer sky. The women twirled their parasols and dress skirts, joyful in the festivities and warm season. There was laughter and sunlight streaming through the windows, the servants buzzing about with smiles and laughter because they weren’t expected to be emotionless machines.  It was the Golden Age of the Barnes Manor, and because of it Clyde saw a boom in tourism.

 

Then Rebecca was born. The parties didn't stop; quite the opposite, in fact.

 

One of the teachers at the little schoolhouse where George and Winifred sent their first child recalled the young girl, when given an assignment to draw her parents, took the chalk and scribbled out a woman in a maid’s uniform and a man with colored-in skin. This teacher, Miss Taylor, knew the Barneses didn't own slaves but definitely knew of the parents’ partying lifestyle, and came to the conclusion that they had hired a nanny and a surrogate father for their little girl. It was unconventional, for sure, but she didn't give it any further thought.

 

Rebecca grew up quietly, spending more time in the greenhouse and stables than in the house itself.  She befriended Gregory, a black man who worked as a blacksmith and who was paid generously for his craftsmanship. She looked up to Dolly, a servant who could cook the best casserole Becca had ever tasted. She loved the sheep and horses, and taught herself to garden and sew.

 

Her parents, her real ones, bought her dolls and dresses but Rebecca didn't know them, not really, except that they had money and lots of friends.

 

She didn't like the friends, especially one in particular.

 

Alexander Pierce gave her _looks_ , predatory like a wolf and she was afraid to go into the big mansion any time he was there. Her father told her Alex had been a mentor and was to be respected, so she did, but didn't think the way he looked at her was right.

 

When she was ten, they had a party for July fourth like they always did and he locked himself in a linen closet with her, emerging once it was over with a smug look of pride on his wrinkled face.

 

She had bruises.

 

She no longer smiled as wide.

 

Everyone knew what had happened but no one could prove it.

 

Her teacher got concerned and wrote to her parents, they assumed it was Gregory from all the time he and their daughter had spent together. Gregory left the day after Becca saw that note in her father’s hand.

 

She smiled even less, then.

 

And following this, the parties increased in number and intensity and Becca spent more time with Dolly.

 

Then James came, crying the moment he entered the world. Becca was eleven.

 

Named for the president in office when he was born, James was raised the same way Becca was - distant from his parents but well and with love. When he was two, America changed and his family splintered. The War of Southern Rebellion, a political brawl turned bloody with the frustration of the south. Mr. Barnes wanted no part of the fighting but he was contacted by Washington, under the Lincoln administration, to come to D.C. and offer his expertise in military strategy (his major at Princeton, where he earned his diploma) to the Union. Unable to say no, he packed up his things and prepared to move out to the nation’s capital.

 

It was January. His family stayed behind, such a long trip dangerous with an infant. George left with a wave and shout goodbye, Winifred and the children standing on the porch steps bundled in blankets and rosy cheeks. They waved back, even little James opened and closed his chubby fists at the retreating form of his father.

 

The worst blizzard in a hundred years had just blown past when they received word of the terrible accident involving George’s carriage and an ice-slick hillside.

 

Winifred, now a widow, was compensated generously by the government even though they really didn't have the funds for it. She fell into a deep depression, the Manor finding itself once again under the gloom its owner felt. It was like that for many years. Dolly raised James and he became a smart young boy with a love for books and academics, and he had a shelf of his favorites in his playroom in the servant’s quarters. Becca learned to ride horses and work in the blacksmith’s shop, her need to be outside supplemented by the abundance of things to do around the estate. She wore men’s breeches and her hair up, something that made hunting and shaping molten metal much easier. Her brother, however, spent his days in the library reading as many books as he could. James became interested in science and math as soon as he could understand the concepts. The schoolteacher loved him, as he always raised his hand and had the right answer. He was a bright child, in love with the world from a young age. Becca showed him her plants so he could see photosynthesis in action, she let him see the carcasses of animals she hunted so he could get a feel for anatomy. She nurtured him just as much as Dolly did. Being eleven years apart meant they never really had any disputes, and once James was old enough to have opinions, Becca was old enough to respect and mentor them. The pair grew up during the war but it never touched them, seeing as not only they grew their own crops but had a large compensation fund from George’s death.

 

When Becca was twenty four, still working the manor with servants that came and went and farm hands from Clyde and the surrounding area, James was thirteen. Winifred was aging fast. She had gotten into drinking, what with the excess of supply they had left over from the events they held in years past. One fateful night, Winnie was trying to make supper just once for her children, but was drunk and had a bottle of scotch in her hand as was usual for her. Becca was coming downstairs from talking with James, who was studying up in the library. The kitchen was offset from the rest of the house because of the heat it created, therefore it often felt unbearable in the summer months.

 

Winifred fumbled around the stove, scotch sloshing out of the bottle and onto the cast iron, but Winnie didn't notice. Puddles formed on the metal of the stove and on the floor, some even got on her dress. She arranged the coals in the compartment that contained the fire and lit it with a match.

 

Becca got to the door of the kitchen just in time to see her mother go up in flames, as well as the stove and area around it. She screamed, heat burning her face and hands as she tried to put the flames out with a cloth. It didn't work. The paint on the walls began to burn, the wood underneath catching because of the dryness of the season. Within seconds the whole room was engulfed in flames, Winifred already dead and Becca unable to see with the smoke and surrounding her. She held a hand over her mouth and tried to navigate out of the kitchen, but was trapped when a flaming beam above the door came loose and fell. She coughed and coughed, dropping to her knees as she felt her clothes and lungs begin to burn. Rebecca Barnes suffocated before her burns got worse than blisters.

 

James stood in the dining room, across from the hall that led to the kitchen, his mouth agape and tears running down his face. He'd wanted to see what was for supper. The shape of his sister collapsed on the ground imprinted itself into his retinas before the servants and farm hands could usher him out of the way.

 

The fire never spread past the kitchen.

 

\--

 

Steven Rogers had lived in Clyde for his entire life, and heard stories of the Barnes mansion for just as long. The fire that had happened there was years and years ago, when he was just an infant. It's 1892 now, immigrants are flooding into the nation and the world’s industry is advancing so fast everyone is barely keeping up. The suffragettes are making a stand against Congress and the black population of the US has been freed, though not from discrimination.

 

Clyde hasn't really changed save for a few new houses and office buildings.

 

Steve is 21 and works in the post office. He delivers mail and sorts it, along with Sam and Clint. They got the job together last year, after their boss at the library booted them for being obnoxious on more than four occasions. Now, Sam handles the heavy lifting, Clint (who’s part deaf) does the sorting, and Steve (who people seem to like, for some reason) does the deliveries. He’s got this big knapsack which he puts over his shoulder as he rides one of Stark’s horses around town and to the surrounding area. Once he’s finished, and he always finishes early, Steve likes to go down to the river and sit and think. Sometimes read. He got through the library’s copy of Poe’s works within a week, and truth be told had nightmares for a week later. He liked reading non-fiction, especially historical works. He read Common Sense once.

 

If only he could knock some of that into the assholes from across town.

 

They tease him for being so small, for being so sick all the time. The adults whisper about it but don’t do anything, because why help when it’ll just sort itself out? Besides, Steve always fights back, no matter what. He even broke Gilmore Hodge’s nose that one time.

 

In all honesty, their teasing isn’t unfounded. Steve very nearly dies every winter, it’s only due to his stubborn nature that he didn’t succumb to pneumonia at ten. It was probably Sarah Rogers promising him a fresh cookie from the bakery for every week he lived. By the end of the winter, they could practically sell the bakery out of snickerdoodles. But Sarah passed from TB last summer, and this was the first winter he got through without her. He figures that was God’s real test for him. Hey, kid, you’ve had help these past twenty years, now try it without! Don’t forget, sit near the fire and take the cough medicine every fifteen minutes (sometimes every ten). Steve reckons God must like him to keep him around for so long, or maybe there’s something still on Earth for him to do.

 

He really hopes it’s not postal service, but it gives him an income.

 

Today is a Thursday, just like any other. Clint has made his allotted four jokes about old man Mulligan’s tailor shop across the street and Sam has pointed out his allotted three birds of prey. Steve has threatened two of his three allotted customers for being boneheaded, and it’s not even ten. Steve’s on his horse (Zeus, now, a tall gray quarter horse) and has his mail bag across his shoulder. He waves bye to Clint and Sam and Stan (the guy who lives next to the post office and sells drawings to neighborhood kids), and sets off.

 

The route is the same, down the street, across, down the side street, zig-zag up, then out into the country. He’s gotten through a good three-fourths of his bag when it’s time to head out into the country, only ten or fifteen envelopes in total. He says hi to Miss Janice, an old lady who loves to gossip with him about the Barnes mansion especially.

 

Today she’s saying that the son, James, still lives there and has been driven mad by loneliness, just like his grandparents. Last week she was saying the ghosts of the sister and mother had killed him, and the week before that she claimed she’d seen him walking down the trail into the thickest part of the woods. Janice loves to speculate about the old manor. Everyone does. It’s the local mystery, central point of gossip. Steve has heard so many rumors that it's hard to sort out what's fact and what's fiction. Most of it revolves around the only living member of the infamous Barnes family, the youngest James. Some say he's not even alive anymore. No one has been to the house in years, ever since the fire no one has seen James or the servants that had been there that day. Miss Janice says her brother worked there until he was fired out of the blue one day. Everyone seems to have some connection to the place, whether their grandparents helped build it or they went to school with Rebecca. Miss Janice thinks the place has magic within it, for being so old and withstanding so much despair. Steve doesn't know what to think. He just delivers her mail, listening to her musings because she doesn't seem to have anyone else for that.

 

Steve moves on from her little house and continues through the country roads as per usual. He gets to the second to last envelope, which is for Mr. Warren at the pig farm across the river. Steve steers Zeus over the wooden bridge and together they amble through the forest and farmland.

 

This path is the one someone would take if they needed to visit the old manor. The woods that Steve is surrounded by are part of the Barnes’ land, these trees belong to James Barnes himself. It makes chills run down Steve’s spine, his blond hair ruffling in an unseasonably cold breeze. It's like walking in the midst of a poltergeist, a vengeful spirit hell-bent on getting even with the world which took from it everything good. The feeling is one of dread, a bone-deep fear of newness or life, and Steve urges Zeus faster. _If this is how the woods feel,_ Steve thinks, _how must it be inside the house itself?_

 

Steve delivers Warren’s envelope and gets a smile and some cookies in return, and as he and Zeus are making their way back to the road, Steve pulls out the last envelope.

 

His heart nearly stops, the breath knocked out of him as his eyes bug out.

 

_JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES_

_BARNES ESTATE_

_CLYDE, NEW YORK, USA_

 

Steve is terrified. He was _just_ in those woods and he _just_ felt that Cold and Dark and Tortured feeling, like the branches of the trees were reaching out to him to consume him because they fed on humanity. It was a somber, depressing emotion. Steve knew he couldn't just _not_ deliver the envelope, because how often does the Barnes residence receive post? Never. Not in a thousand years _never_. So Steve has to deliver this. Because for all he knows, it's from the President. Or Rockefeller. Or Zeus himself.

 

So he kicks horse-Zeus once and they're off again, continuing down the path they had just been on but further than the turn they'd had to make for Mr. Warren’s delivery. The woods get darker and more dreary as they go on, until eventually the trail stops dead and another, smaller path snakes off to the right. Next to its head stands a black wooden sign with gold-painted lettering.

 

_BARNES MANOR_

_EST. 1796_

 

Steve summons all the courage he has and sends a last-ditch Hail Mary to the powers above, before directing horse-Zeus down the overgrown path.

 

His suspenders feel too itchy; his shirt sleeve cuffs too tight on his forearms. His socks feel too small and his nose feels too big - it's like this place amplifies every uncomfortable feeling he could possibly be enduring at the moment. He shivers again - it's August but the temperature has dropped dramatically since he came down this path - and looks for the clearing which signals the end of the entrance road.

 

After about a minute of silent walking, Zeus’ shoes against the gravel the only noise to interrupt that of the wind, Steve sees sunlight at the end of the trail. They make it there quicker than he’d have liked, but realizes that he was wrong in his assumption of the size and aura of the place.

 

It's _massive._ He can't imagine living here, ever, much less all alone. The spires tower above him like swords, the windows are dark and foreboding, the front door is taller than a front door should be, and the outbuildings surround the place as if they're guards. The gardens are full of weeds and even a sapling grows within the white fence enclosing them. The house itself has ivy growing up the sides and the wood looks weather-worn, but surprisingly not all that dilapidated for being so long in its abandonment.

 

Steve ponders this as he dismounts from Zeus and ties his reins to a lamppost. _If the house is abandoned, which in all reality it has to be, why is James Barnes still receiving mail here?_

 

Steve has the envelope clutched in his pale hands as he walks up the front steps of the house. It takes him forever to cross the porch - like crossing Lake Erie in a rowboat, or something similar. He knocks on the door twice and gets no answer, so he yells.

 

“Hello? Mister Barnes? Anybody in here?”

 

There's still no reply, even after about thirty seconds of waiting.

 

“I'm comin’ in! Just - just gotta drop this post off!”

 

He's completely and totally uncertain of himself and his hand shakes as he opens the door, but he does it. The wood squeaks and it's completely terrifying, but he's curious under all the heart-stopping fear. He wants to know if the famed James Barnes still lives.

 

Inside, it looks like a Poe story. It's high ceilings and cobwebs over couches, and candelabras that need to be polished and walls with paintings of landscapes and people most likely part of the Barnes family. It’s the smell of must and old, old cologne, it’s seeing light come through windows painted brown with dust. The legendary Barnes mansion is foreboding and immense on the outside, but on the inside?

 

It’s cold, sure, but a little too…

 

Predictable.

 

It’s exactly what Steve expected. Just the right amount of terrifying mixed with a fair amount of historic mixed with a tad of awe-inspiring. Like someone cut-and-glued words from a thriller novel into being on this plot of land. As Steve moves through the house, he thinks this must have been so lonely for a child.

 

He sees the charred remains of the hallway to the kitchen, covered with wooden boards. He sees old bottles of whiskey and champagne, he sees books on end tables that look like they’ve got dog-eared pages. The one thing he doesn’t see, though, is probably the most disturbing.

 

Dust.

 

Except in the entrance hall with the spiderwebs on the couches, and on the high corners of the windows, he sees not a speck of dust. As if even the particles of dirt and skin that float around were too intimidated to enter this place. Steve laughs at his own naivety. Someone’s been in here and has dusted. But no one’s _been here_. Which only means one thing - someone lives here. And only one person could live here.

 

Steve walks up the creaking old stairs to the landing, then walks up another flight and sees the entrance to some bedrooms, a room clearly labelled ‘OFFICE’, and a room that must be the library. His hair stands on end when he realizes that the double doors to the library are standing wide open. It’s like the Tree in Eden, he knows logically that he shouldn’t, but can’t think of a good reason not to. At least not in that moment he can’t. It’s either a sign of great strength or great weakness, he figures, to not know a good reason when it’s practically gonna hit you in the face. He takes a breath, a stale, musty breath, and thinks _to hell with it_.

 

Steve crosses the hallway and stands in front of the doors.

 

_Curiosity killed the cat,_

 

He steps inside and immediately his eyes are drawn to the window located between shelves.

 

_But satisfaction brought it back._

 

There’s a figure at the window, silhouetted by the setting sun. A pipe is visible from where the man’s lips seem to be, a smooth curl of smoke drifting from the stem. Steve clears his throat, his heart racing and blood rushing in his ears.

 

“S - sir? You’ve, uh, got this post. D - doesn’t say from whom.”

 

The man straightens up from his relaxed, hunched-over position against the window. He’s tall - taller than Sam, even, and Steve still can’t see his face. He sets the pipe down on a desk and walks over to Steve, looming like his house seems to do. His steps are measured and long, and Steve catches the glint of a pocketwatch chain against his abdomen as he walks.

 

The man stops, face still in shadow, about a yard from where Steve still hasn’t moved from. Steve can hear his breath, soft and slow, like a cat’s.

 

“D’you know you’re the first person to come up that road and not get so scared they piss their pants before ever reaching the front door?”

 

Steve blinks. Not what he’d expected.

 

“I’m completely serious.” He sticks out his left hand - Steve isn't in the right frame of mind to care that it isn’t flesh - and makes a ‘gimme’ gesture with it. “Let me see that. If it’s Pierce again, I’m going to scream.”

 

Steve gives him the envelope. His mouth is opening and closing like a fish, he’s too shocked to say anything.

 

“What?” The man moves his head so Steve can tell he’s looking at him. “You look like a fish.”

 

Steve furrows his brow. “I do not.”

 

“So he speaks! That’s good, a postal worker with the ability to speak. Come on, then, let’s go see what this is.”

 

The man, presumably it’s James, pushes past Steve and walks out into the hall. He enters the office and leaves the door open, so Steve really has no choice other than to follow.

 

Once inside, Steve sits down at one of the two chairs on the other side of James. His face is still dark, still unseeable. Steve almost wonders if it’s purposeful. Probably.

 

“Alright. So, since you’re obviously not adept at mak-” he slices the letter open with a letter opener “-ing conversation, I’ll sta-”

 

Steve cuts him off.

 

“You’re alive.”

 

James laughs. “Of course. What else would I be?”

 

“Some people say you’re a ghost. Some just think you’re dead period.”

 

“Oh? People still talk about this place? I’d thought they’d get bored with it after two decades.”

 

There’s malice in his voice, but his tone remains upbeat. He has the letter out of the envelope but hasn’t unfolded it.

 

“They can’t really get bored with it if no one knows what happened to you.”

 

“How do you know I’m the me you’re thinking I am?”

 

“I don’t. Wild guess? James Barnes.”

 

The man shudders. Visibly shakes. “James. That disgusts me, my mother gave me that name. Call me Bucky. Becca and Bucky, that’s what the two of us were.” He sighs, most likely out of tenderness. “Who are you, anyway?”

 

“Steve. Steven Rogers.”

 

“Well, Steve, you’re smaller than I’ve ever seen a man, but more of one in heart than I’ve ever experienced. Nice to meet you.” He leans forward and offers his right hand, the one not holding the letter. His face falls into the light.

 

Steve shakes his hand and marvels at how elegant yet weathered the man of only thirty-three looks after all this time.

 

His eyes are gray, simple as that, but they hold so much beneath them. Steve feels like if he were to stare into those eyes for long enough, he’d see the fire that took James’ last family. They show loneliness and intellect, and more than a hint of madness. Judging by his eyes, James seems just as you’d expect. Reflective of the forest surrounding his house. As if those woods were his very soul.

 

His lips are full and his cheekbones are high like someone from eastern Europe might have, same with his brow bone and chin. He’s got dark brown hair that seems to be slicked back, held together at the base of his head.

 

In conclusion, Steve thinks he’s a very attractive man. And that’s putting it lightly.

 

“Nice to meet you too, Bucky.”

 

Bucky nods once and lets Steve go, drawing his hand back into himself quickly. Steve sets his own in his lap, watching Barnes expectantly. The man seems to be mulling something over, as he's turning the letter over in his fingertips. The light _sush sush_ of paper against skin is just barely audible. Steve taps the heel of his boot.

 

“Alright.” Bucky says, looking back up to Steve, “I have no clue what this is and you're the first person I've talked to in a long time, so we’re both having an odd day.” He grabs the paper by the corners. Top left and bottom right. “Here goes.”

 

Bucky opens the letter and his eyebrows rise into his hairline, causing wrinkles to fold in his forehead. His eyes widen almost comically. A whispered expletive falls from his lips.

 

“What? What is it?” Steve says, because he's extremely curious.

 

“Oh. It's from _him_.” He nearly growls the word.

 

“Who?”

 

“ _Him_! Who else could it be? Honestly, Rogers, for someone with the gusto you’ve got, you're fairly boneheaded.”

 

“Is it Pierce?” Steve doesn't know what Pierce he’s referencing, but he does know there’s a Congressman Pierce, and wouldn't be surprised if it is him.

 

“No, that man is terrified of me.” Bucky waves a hand dismissively. “This,” he shakes the paper, “is from Arnim Zola.”

 

Steve is quiet for a second.

 

“Who's that?” He asks tentatively.

 

Bucky chuckles, an entirely humorless laugh. “Arnim Zola is second on my list of Most Hated People. And he’s written me a _letter._ How considerate, it looks like slugs do grasp the concept of correspondence. Someone call a scientist.”

 

Steve raises a brow. “Y’mind me asking what he did to you?”

 

Barnes shrugs. He sets the letter down and, using his right hand, pulls the left sleeve of his suit coat to his elbow.

 

Revealed is a mechanical wonder, a prosthetic like nothing Steve had ever imagined before. If it even is a prosthetic. It's something out of the imaginings of Da Vinci or Archimedes, centuries ahead of their time. Steve isn’t even positive that it's entirely real until he realizes it had been holding the letter for a considerable time. Now that he concentrates, he can just hear the whirring of gears as Bucky flexes the fingers.

 

He smiles a grin full of distaste and revulsion, twisting the hand around at the wrist. “This, Steve, is what he did to me. He made me a machine.”

 

Just for a second, Steve glimpses in Bucky’s eyes, some sort of volatile anger. It’s a painful rage, as if this metallic limb reminds him of terrible tragedy.

 

Bucky’s face reassembles itself quickly, however. Within seconds he’s back to the jovial, if not a bit strange, man he was a minute ago. He slides his sleeve back up and grabs the letter.

 

“But that’s a story for another time.” He says, looking at the paper. “Right now, we need to figure out how to get this place in working order again. I simply cannot have my mortal enemy thinking I live like a corpse.”

 

“Uh, excuse me? What?”

 

“Hav’ta get this place back looking like it used to! Do you have any friends, back in Clyde?” Bucky asks, as if they were discussing this over coffee and biscuits. Steve is caught off guard for a moment, something that seems to be happening often in Barnes’ presence.

 

“Is that non-answer a no? I refuse to believe no one likes you, Steven.”

 

“Oh, uh, yeah, I've got a couple friends back in town. What does that have to do with anything, though?”

 

“Bring ‘em over this weekend, whenever suits you and them. Let them know the ‘famed’ James Barnes lives and needs some assistance in tidying up.” Bucky seems as if what he’s asking is completely sane, utterly insignificant. As he talks, the sun goes deeper behind the horizon. Steve can tell by the darkening fields out the window over Bucky’s shoulders. He should be getting back. He should have been back.

 

“You do realize how much of a lunatic they’ll think I am if I ask ‘em that? They all think you’re dead, Bucky, or nameless in some big city.” Steve almost snaps, seeing as this man, whom he’s known for all of fifteen minutes, seems to have no grasp of social cues.

 

“Oh, Steve, you’ll figure it out. And as far as your job goes, you’ll have plenty of time on Saturday.”

 

“What? That’s right, I’ve gotta work! Speaking of which, I should be going.”

 

Steve stands up suddenly, the chair scraping backwards as his legs push it back. He’s angry, now, at Bucky. The fact that he can’t understand Steve’s predicament is infuriating, and makes the blond’s blood boil. Sure, Barnes is a local legend and could probably buy the entire township of Clyde without a second thought, but something about him is undoubtedly, profoundly _off_. He had no qualms about showing Steve the Arm. He showed no negative reaction to Steve essentially breaking into his house. He told Steve about Zola, and mentioned Pierce. Bucky was almost too calm, given the situation. It unnerves Steve greatly, he needs out.

 

“Oh, right yes, off you go then. I’m looking forward to seeing you Saturday. I might join you at St. Mary’s for Mass on Sunday, if that’s alright.” Barnes stands up as well, a strange glimmer in his eyes.

 

“You’re not worried about people recognizing you?”

 

Bucky laughs, a throaty noise that bounces off the high walls and musty oil paintings around them.

 

“No, Steve, I doubt anyone in this town could even spot a steer running wild in a Parisian fine china shop, much less a man they haven’t known for twenty years. Anyone except you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello yes it's me, the worst updater to ever exist. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support! It means the world to me, honestly, and I really really appreciate it. I needed some time to figure out where I wanted this to go and even longer to figure out how to say it. I'm not going to guarantee faster updates because I'm not into false hope, and also school is coming up, but I will not abandon this ship. Hah.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! Be sure to read the notes at the end, too, I know we all skip them but it's some pretty important stuff.

_The metallic stench of earth mixes with that of masculine sweat and blood, a putrid odor that invades Bucky’s senses for hours. There’s only three other guys with him right now, but they’re all just as tired and sweaty and dirty as he is. He can just barely make out Morita’s face in the dim candlelight, the man’s sullen brown eyes ringed with fatigue and grime. Bucky imagines he must look very similar._

 

_It’s silent save for the noises they make, a litany of metal-on-soil, the spray of sod that erupts in their faces for every strike they make on the wall in front of them. Dugan had been whistling Battle Hymn of the Republic a while back, but stopped after the thirteenth repetition. He claimed he didn’t know nothin’ else, no other songs suited him right. It had been a few hours since they quit talking to each other. The four men communicate more with weary glances and groans of pain than they can with words._

 

_Bucky thinks of Dolly, of Becca. He swings the tool he was given so long ago at the earth in front of him, his anger fueling his actions. He knows well that he’s gotten stronger over the course of these past few years, but he’d rather be obscenely fat yet happy as opposed to fit and living in whatever hell this was. They say the Fourth Circle is Greed, which Bucky figures fits with his particular situation. Greed led him to Zola, away from his beloved home, and greed led Zola to this. To deception, to torture. Bucky knows it isn’t anything but the Devil, tempting them with promises of so much power and money they can’t even fathom it. He’s been thinking about the Devil a lot lately, and Dante’s Inferno. The gate to the Fourth Circle being guarded by Ploutos, Greek god of wealth._

 

_His mind is a spinning wheel, going ‘round and ‘round in circles, remembering things and living for an hour or two on those vague, foggy recollections. His back burns with strain and his arms feel nearly numb, but he keeps going. Bucky knows he’s not getting out of here until he brings Zola exactly what he wants._

 

\--

 

Steve stands in front of the manor that Saturday morning, staring up at the house with determination. Sam, to his left, has his arms crossed and Clint, to his right has an eyebrow raised. Behind them is a cart they’d brought full of tools Steve thought they might need.

 

It had taken a fair amount of convincing on Steve’s part to get the two of them out here with him. He’d had to forgo mentioning James at all, and promised that he’d do double his usual amount of sweeping at the office once they got back. Sam had whined about spirits and curses the whole way there, babbling about how the three of ‘em would wind up at the bottom of some well or completely mad and seeing things. Clint had simply shrugged and agreed, seemingly without anything else to do for the weekend. They'd started out early Saturday, with Miss Carter keeping the post office tidy and her friend, Miss  Martinelli, doing the rounds. The boys’ boss didn't seem to mind spending the day with two of the town’s prettiest gals. The trip to the estate had taken considerably shorter since Thursday, seeing as Steve didn’t have any other stops like he’d had then. The mule they’d rented from Stark wasn’t all that stubborn and there was a light breeze, making the day to seem perfect for a bit of outdoor labor.

 

They hadn’t really talked about what exactly they’d be doing here.

 

“You guys want to do the yard work, I’ll check out the inside?” Steve suggests, his brain suddenly flashing a warning that maybe not telling them about Bucky wasn’t so bright.

 

“Nah, Steve, we’ll come in with ‘ya. Who knows what’s in there.” Sam seems insistent.

 

“See, fellas, that’s the thing -” Steve rubs the back of his neck as they make their way up to the porch. He’s cut off by the double doors swinging wide open. Sam jumps back with a yelp and Clint freezes, a fear-stricken look falling upon his features.

 

“The _hell_?” They’re Clint’s first words since they’d arrived.

 

Bucky emerges, a big smile on his face. He looks remarkably well-put together, clean and freshly shaven. He’s wearing a cotton shirt with suspenders and the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, with what seems to be wool pants and work boots. A significant change from the silk trousers and waistcoat of a few days ago. He almost looks like a farmer, save the metal limb.

 

“Hello, Steve, I see you’ve brought some help. Excellent, we can get right to work.” Bucky rubs his hands together, the shiny metallic of his left one reflecting the sun. His face falls and he stops dead in his tracks as he sees Sam and Clint.

 

“Gee, Steve, you had two days to tell ‘em about me.”

 

Sam’s the first one to confront Bucky directly. “And who exactly is that? And what’s that - that _contraption_ where your arm should be?”

 

Steve tries to calm him down. “Sam -”

 

“No, Steve, he’s right to be confused.” Bucky walks across the porch and down the steps so he’s eye level with Sam. They’re about two feet apart now. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes and, contrary to popular belief I am, in fact, not dead.” He smiles a sly grin, all lips, and sticks his flesh hand out for Sam to shake.

 

Sam eyes him and doesn’t shake his hand.

 

Bucky closes his hand into a fist and nods. He raises the metal one, the sound of gears whirring just audible above the drone of cicadas out in the fields. “This is the result of first an unfortunate accident, and second an unfortunate acquaintance. It’s simply an arm, no need to be frightened of it.”

 

“Oh yeah? What’s it made of, then? What’s it do?”

 

“Well, ‘s far as I know, it’s made of a titanium and vibranium alloy. And it does whatever I tell it.” There’s a gleam in his eye, almost playful, as he twists the fingers and makes them do a little dance in the air. His movements are gentle, despite the intimidating nature of something so strange.

 

Sam still seems skeptical. Steve is kicking his past self for not mentioning Barnes, and Clint seems curious. The latter speaks up.

 

“Where’ve you been all these years, anyway?”

 

Bucky barks out a laugh, the metal arm falling to his side once again. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Now, why don’t we figure out what it is exactly we’re going to do today, and get to it. What did you two say your names were?”

 

“Clint Barton.” “We didn’t.”

 

Sam sighs. “Sam Wilson.”

 

Bucky grins. “Fantastic. You can call me Bucky, and I’ve got lemonade and snacks inside if you’re hungry. Let’s take this conversation there for a moment.” He turns on his heel and marches up the stairs, an air of worldly experience surrounding him. Steve makes to follow, but Sam stops him with a firm palm on his chest.

 

“We’re talking about this later, Steve.”

 

The blond nods, once, knowing exactly what Sam is referring to. Steve turns and hurries up the porch steps quickly in an effort to save himself from further admonishment.

 

-

 

Inside, the house is still as dark and dismal as Steve remembers, but the cobwebs have been dusted from the front parlor’s chairs and a tray of drinking glasses, a plate of sugar cookies, and a pitcher of lemonade all sit on the wide coffee table in the middle of the room. The midmorning sun shines through the high windows, the golden rays illuminating the dust motes which float freely in the air. The stern gazes of past Barnes family members observe the newcomers from their places high up on the walls, the smell of old oil permeating the air around these paintings.

 

Steve takes a seat on the couch, directly under a depiction of ‘Harriet’, a doe-eyed woman with graying blonde hair pulled tight under a feathery hat. Bucky takes the opposite end of the couch, as Clint and Sam each choose the high-backed chairs on the other side of the table.

 

Barnes crosses his legs, appearing to be in contemplation. He watches a spot over Clint’s shoulder for a few moments. Sam looks lost.

 

Steve clears his throat. “Anyone want lemonade?” He’s already reaching for the pitcher and glasses.

 

In that moment, Bucky seems to come to life again.

 

“Ah, yes. No, no, Steve! I’ll take that.” Bucky swiftly stands, waving Steve’s hands away. He fills the glasses with the lemonade, each to exactly the same height and each with exactly three ice cubes. He hands the first to Sam, then gives the next to Clint, the third to Steve, and saves the last for himself. He settles back on the couch with his foot resting on his knee. Vaguely he gestures at the cookies. “Have a go at those. Haven’t made ‘em in a while, we’ll see if my baking skills have improved any.”

 

“You made these?” Clint wonders aloud, already reaching for one. He’s always had the biggest sweet tooth of the trio. Miss Carter says he ought to cut back on the sweets, but gives him taffy and lemon drops regardless. He takes a bite of the cookie, releasing a small groan at the tase. “These’re really good.”

 

“Thank you, Clint, and yes, I did. Old family recipe. Well.” He raises an eyebrow, quirking his mouth slightly. “Sort of.”

 

Steve reaches for one. Taking a bite, he makes a groan not unlike the one Clint had. It tastes of cinnamon and vanilla, with some mint and lemon. The flavors blend perfectly on Steve’s tongue, and almost rival Mrs. Wilson’s snickerdoodles. The cookies are _very_ good, and he goes for another.

 

Sam still seems skeptical. He has a cookie in his hand, and appears to be inspecting it.

 

“How’d you make these, then, Barnes? Without a kitchen and all.”

 

Steve feels the hairs on his arm rise, the back of his neck prickling. It’s exactly the sensation he feels whenever someone asks Stark about his father’s name still on the business he now owns, or if someone talks about the whores of New York City when the church steeple is still in view. His heart seems to drop a few inches, pulling at his throat.

 

The whole mood of the room shifts from the verge of amenable to cold and distraught.

 

Barnes lowers his glass from where he was about to take a sip, and his once warm, cloth-like gray eyes seem more metallic than his arm. His features turn to stone, cheekbones outlined in the now foreboding shadows of the drapery overhead. The glass clatters to the table in front of him as he stands and carelessly sets it down. Suddenly Bucky is up, the muscles of his back under his shirt tense and defensive. He looks down at Sam, the index finger of his left hand pointed directly at the man.

 

“Mr. Wilson, I’d strongly advise you to never mention the kitchen of this household again in my presence.”

 

Just as quickly as he stood up, Barnes is out of the house, front door slamming behind him. Steve’s heart is racing and he doesn’t think he’s even breathed since Sam said the word ‘without’. He can’t decide whether to go off on Sam for speaking so carelessly, or to go after Bucky and demand what else he expected from practically forcing Steve to bring these two into his house.

 

Clint’s doing the former already, so Steve settles on the latter.

 

He’s up and out of his seat on the couch, out the door, and running after the figure pacing just beyond where they left the mule and cart. He reaches Bucky just as he hears the older man spit out an obscenity.

 

“Bucky! Buck, come on, I‘m sorry Sam said that, usually he’s better with his words.” A statement only half true. “But come on, you had to know that was a risk when asking me to bring ‘em here.”

 

Bucky stops his pacing, looking slightly manic as he turns his eyes down to meet Steve’s. “I know.” He almost sobs it, his voice a mixture of rage and heartbreak. “I _know_. That’s the whole problem. You don’t get it. Even hearing that word makes me see it, and seeing it is - is something that haunts me. Steve, you don’t get it, I can see her - see Becca -”

 

His eyes are wild, hands in his hair. Steve puts his own on Bucky’s forearms, slowly guiding them down away from his head, letting them rest at Bucky’s sides. “Bucky. I don’t know, you’re right. But you have to calm down. Hey.” Bucky had begun staring off at the house behind Steve, and so the smaller man snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s nose to get his attention. Their eyes found one another again, blue on gray. “Hey. Think of today. We’re gonna clean this place up, right? You’ll help Clint and Sam clean up the gardens, and I’ll sweep the house. I’ll bring you refreshments, some of that delicious lemonade you made. You’re okay, pal. I’m right here.”

 

Bucky’s eyes are focused again, back to the softness of cotton. He nods minutely, lips pressed into a determined line.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Thank you, Steve.”

 

Steve nods his ‘you’re welcome’, and Bucky gives him a squeeze on the shoulders with both hands, the metal equally as gentle as the flesh.

 

Together they trudge back to the house, and meet up with Sam and Clint on the porch just as the two emerge from inside. Bucky gives Sam the same skeptical look Sam had been giving him since they met, and Steve has a feeling the two of them would have a rocky relationship.

 

But that isn’t of importance right now, he decides.

 

“Alright, so Sam, Clint, and Bucky, you’re all gonna work out here, correct?” Steve starts, and they all nod, a small grin dancing over Bucky’s features. “Good. Since we all know I’m useless outside, what with my hay fever and fair skin, I’ll be cleaning up inside. Bringing some light in, adding some color to the place, that sort of thing. Every hour or so I’ll bring out some lemonade, and we can work until sundown. Everyone agreeable with that?”

 

They all murmur their assent, Sam obviously still on edge. Steve just prays they can all get along for at least today.

 

The group separates, Steve into the house and the other three over to the cart, discussing amongst themselves what chore they’d each like to take care of. Once he’s inside and can no longer hear the others, Steve starts making a list of things to do in his head.

 

He decides the house is in most dire need of some light. Carefully, with a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t sneeze at the dust that is disturbed, Steve fastens the tiebacks around the drapes. He makes his way around the first floor, even spotting some windows with drapes that aren’t open at all and are located in the darkest corners of the rooms, ones he hadn’t noticed before. It’s slow going, sure, and he cautiously opens every mysterious door fearing some creature will hop out at him, but none do and he opens all the drapes in those rooms too. By the time he’s only got one room left, a considerable amount of time has passed, but the whole house glows and he can see colors on the walls and pictures in frames. It no longer reminds him of a Poe story, more of a Greek palace. Like a house on Mount Olympus, and Bucky is the lonely god who resides in it.

 

The last room is perhaps the most hidden. It’s down a hallway with exactly three doors in it; this room at the far end, a door to the basement (Steve thanks his lucky stars that there was a sign indicating so - he feared any day he’d have to venture down there), and a door leading outside. Steve grips the handle, turns it, and pushes, expecting another sitting room or sewing machine or liquor closet. Instead, he finds in the glow that emerges with him through the door a piano, located exactly in the middle of the room.

 

There are two windows and once he opens them and ties them back, Steve can see the piano fully and for the beauty it is. The wood is a dark mahogany, the keys aging ivory but the strings all there and taut. It’s a concert grand, suitable more for a large venue with high ceilings, but once he glances upward Steve can see this room goes up and up and up until it ends with a balcony at the third floor. Stairs lead upwards, spiraling around him, and immediately Steve knows he’s standing in one of the spires of the house. It’s immense, the room, more so than he had expected. A door from a room on the second floor leads out to the stairs and Steve can just imagine someone playing a Mozart piece here and everyone being able to hear it.

 

He investigates the piano more closely, and upon doing so notices a long piece of thin paper resting on the music rack. The title reads _Moonlight Sonata_ in fine, looping cursive, and the music seems to be all hand-written. Someone transposed this music from memory, Steve realizes with wonder, and whoever did so must have been a genius. He steps back, admiring the beautiful instrument, wondering who played it and when. For the first time today, Steve feels truly out of place, a speck of nothing in a world he doesn’t understand. He can’t read notes, let alone play piano. He can barely sing when he’s in the choir for church, and knows about as much about classical music as a fish does.

 

Just as Steve’s about to leave, as he’s halfway to the door, he spots something sticking out from behind the leg of a table along the wall. He takes a step back and bends down, seeing immediately that it’s the paw of a stuffed toy bear. He grabs the paw and pulls it out into the light. The bear, about ten inches tall, is obviously well made, but hand made, the stitching tight and even but the button eyes a little crooked. A velvet ribbon is tied in a bow around its neck, with a little wooden tag hanging from a thread in the middle of it. There are words carved into the wood, a child’s, by the shakiness of the letters, and they proclaim the bear to be _BUCKY BEAR_. Steve’s heart glows, and he tucks the toy under his arm to set out in the parlor.

 

-

 

Steve brings the lemonade and glasses to the men outside as soon as he can. Upon spotting them, he can see Bucky off to the far left, moving back and forth in sweeping motions, a scythe secure in his hands. About three quarters of the lawn has been sheared into piles of grass sitting in heaps all along where Bucky has cut.

 

Meanwhile, Clint and Sam have made a dent in the weed infested, overrun garden. Sam is chopping at the weeds with a hoe and Clint is uprooting them and tossing them aside. They’ve got about one third of it done.

 

With care, Steve shifts the lemonade and glasses to one hand, bringing the other one up to his lips and sticking a finger in his mouth, right on his tongue. He lets out a shrill whistle and everyone looks up, expressions of fatigue morphing into wide smiles of joy.

 

“You boys thirsty?” he hollers, watching them drop their tools and hotfoot it over to where Steve stands. Bucky is the first to arrive, taking the pitcher from off the tray and filling a random glass to an inch from the top. He drinks the whole thing in one go, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows the sweet drink.

 

“You’re a savior, Steven, you know that?” He starts filling his glass again. Before he puts it to his lips, Bucky gives Steve a considering glance, eyes darting over Steve’s face and down his chest to across his hands. He jerks his head to the house. “Find anything interesting in there?”

 

Instead of answering, Steve is saved by Clint and Sam arriving, both men drenched in sweat. They each take a glass and fill it, drinking as rabidly as Bucky had. Steve sets the tray on the ground.

 

“How’s it been going?” he asks, genuinely curious. They seem to have made a fair amount of headway, both Clint and Sam as well as Bucky.

 

“Well,” Bucky starts, shooting a look over at Sam and Clint, “These two were bickering over where they wanted to start at, and by the time they got going I was already about halfway through. I just might join you in cleaning up the house, Steve, since these two were insatiable and loud.”

 

Sam lets out a laugh at that. “Okay, Barnes, you do that. Thank us later for making your gardens look like someone actually uses them again.”

 

Bucky smirks. “You’ll get your thanks, Wilson, don’t jump the gun. And besides, you gotta finish the job to get paid for it.”

 

There’s a teasing air about the group, and Steve is relieved to see that Sam and Bucky have somewhat made up. Clint is still drinking the lemonade, his hair sticking up in all different directions. Somehow he seems to have gotten it _on_ himself, rather than in.

 

Steve picks up the tray again before a bigger mess can be made.

 

Bucky follows Steve back into the house, holding the door and allowing the smaller man to go in first. Upon seeing the noticeable difference in the house’s brightness, he turns to Steve, a wide smile on his face.

 

“I’ll be damned, Steve, you’ve really outdone yourself here.” Bucky turns back to look around, an expression of pure joy on his face. He twirls on the balls of his feet, spinning around so he can see the entire expanse of the room. The look on his face is one of pure joy, Steve thinks, and wonders why something as simple as opening some drapes could be so monumental in Bucky’s eyes. He wonders how long it’s been since Bucky’s seen something of his own glowing in vibrant summer sunlight. Bucky slows to a stop, facing Steve.

 

“I think the last time I saw this place so bright was when I still in my layettes. Becca used to tell me about the times when our father was still around, right before the war. My mother and father were two halves of the same whole, a machine working in perfect unison with itself. I imagine this -” he spreads his arms for a moment, gesturing to the room “- is what the manor was like at the time of their marriage.”

 

Steve almost can’t bring himself to say it, Bucky’s just so delighted. But he does.

 

“Bucky, all I did was open the drapes. We can still sweep the floors, polish the silver, fluff the pillows, light some of the lamps, and clean out the fireplaces, and even then we’ve still got the second and third floors to take care of.”

 

Bucky nods, accepting what Steve’s saying. “You’re right. I just... this place has always been so dark ever since I can remember. I don’t think these walls have seen the sun since my father’s accident.”

 

“I understand, I do. But if you’ve got a visitor coming, there’s plenty more we can to do get this place in tip-top shape before he arrives. Why is that man coming, anyway?”

 

The taller man’s eyes go from luminous to stormy just like that, similar to how they did earlier when Sam brought up the kitchen. Steve leans back ever so slightly, arms crossed protectively over his chest. The last thing he wants is to be the object of Barnes’ wrath.

 

“I believe it’s to settle a debt, but Zola’s words aren’t worth an ounce of salt. I suppose I’ll find out when he gets here. He said he’s coming on the thirteenth, what’s today?”

 

“The eleventh.”

 

Bucky nods. “We better get going, then. I’d say we should polish the silver next, get it gleaming like the day it was made.” The brunet’s gaze drifts upwards, over Steve’s shoulder, assumedly to the elaborate candelabra that sits in the front parlor. As far as Steve’s seen, that particular object is in the most dire need of some good polishing. But then, just as Steve’s about to go off to the closet where he’d seen a bottle of Wright’s and about two dozen rags, Bucky does a double take and makes a beeline for something in the parlor. Steve spins around, confused until he sees what Bucky’s after.

 

The bear.

 

Bucky snatches the toy up from where Steve had propped him against the candelabra, looking with disbelief at the tag strung round its neck. He looks at Steve incredulously, shocked gray meeting timid blue. A small smile ghosts over Steve’s mouth.

 

“Where’d you find this?”

 

Steve jerks his head in the general direction of the hallway. “In the piano room, under a table. Thought you might like to see it.”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “You’ve got no idea how long it’s been since I’ve held him. We - we used to play jungle, Becca had this lion and Dolly used some toy monkey, and we’d pretend the playroom was a forest and the walls were trees. I haven’t thought about that since I was a boy.” Steve can see moisture glimmering on his eyes, tears forming as he tells this story with an uneven, shaking voice. Bucky gives a halfhearted laugh, clutching the bear tighter. “I thought mother threw this away when I was ten. She said I was too old for toys, that I had to focus on schoolwork. I cried myself to sleep that night.”

 

Steve doesn’t know what to say and his eyes cast themselves downward, for fear of his gaze being an intrusion on a tender moment. There’s a few seconds of silence, then all at once he’s being wrapped up in strong arms, the smell of grass and sweat and cotton invading his nose. Slowly rubs Barnes on the back, hands resting just below his shoulder blades,  unsure how to respond to such an outright expression of fondness. Bucky’s chin is on his shoulder, and Steve can feel the rising of his chest and the staccato of his breath as he tries to contain his emotion.

 

“Thank you, Steve,” he says lowly, voice rough, even more so than usual. Quickly he releases Steve from the hold and smooths the nonexistent wrinkles on the smaller man’s sleeves. “I suppose we should get to work. Thoughts of tomorrow nothing but desire, and all that.” He rushes past Steve and sets the bear tenderly on the back of one of the chaise lounges near the front door. Bucky makes to be getting the polish and some rags, and strangely Steve misses the other man’s warm embrace.

 

They get through polishing the silver fairly quickly, making small talk as they go. At one point, Bucky casually asks about the president, and upon hearing the name Benjamin Harrison, his hand stops in its motions on a gravy boat. Steve pauses as well, the spoon as well as the hand it’s in going still. “What?” He asks. Harrison’s been president for some time, Steve thinks, surely Bucky can’t be that out of touch that he doesn’t know the _president_.

 

Bucky shakes his head, hand resuming its motions on the silver. “Nevermind. Just, last president I remember the Union having was Rutherford Hayes.”

 

Steve gapes. “You can’t be serious.”

 

“I am. Have there been any in between there?”

 

“Sure. James Garfield and Chester Arthur. You really didn’t know?”

 

Barnes shrugs. He doesn’t seem fazed by this information. “I suppose time moves slower where I was at.”

 

He doesn’t elaborate and Steve doesn’t ask. They go back to polishing the silver.

 

Once they’re done, the two find time to sweep the floors, which in and of itself proves to be a difficult task. It takes them until the sky is orange and pink to get the whole first floor done. Bucky calls it a night and so they go outside to see how Sam and Clint are doing.

 

The other two have made much more progress since Steve last saw them. One of them finished scything the lawn, and they’ve uprooted the tree in the middle of the gardens as well as the rest of the weeds. Not all that remains is exposed soil. Bucky gives a cheer, and Sam and Clint holler back.

 

“I see it’s been a productive day, you two, I didn’t know you were capable of it.” Barnes says with a grin. Sam chuckles.

 

“Must’ve been the absence of you, Barnes, no one around to distract us.”

 

Bucky laughs at that, and before long the trio are set to leave the Barnes estate. As they’re heading down the road, Bucky calls out to Steve.

 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that promise to join you for Mass! Saint Mary’s, right?”

 

Steve turns around, nods, and cups his hands around his mouth. “Father Jim looks exactly the same, I promise!”

 

\--

 

The next morning, Steve sees Bucky walking up the road to the little four-wall wooden church. He runs up to his friend, falling into step with him.

 

“You sure no one will recognize ‘ya?”

 

“Fairly. If needed, we can just say I’m your third cousin from Syracuse, bastard son of your father’s brother.”

 

“You really would be a bastard if you were my uncle’s son and from Syracuse, he was a secesh. Still is.”

 

Bucky grimaces. “The things I do for you, Rogers, the things I do.”

 

They enter the church and everything is fine, and remains so through the whole service. Bucky sings all the hymns and listens to the whole liturgy with a focus Steve only has for adventure novels. They sit together and go up to communion together, Bucky following Steve, a guiding hand on the younger man’s back as he lets the blonde out of the pew first. No one stops them until they’re outside afterwards, when Miss Romanoff, the Russian gal from down the street, stops them to talk.

 

“Who’s this, Steve?” She asks is with a strange curiosity in her eyes, like she knows exactly who Bucky is but wants to hear their made-up story.

 

“Oh, just my third cousin from down in Syracuse. Came up to see ma’s grave,” Steve quickly explains, as Bucky nods.

 

“Pleasure.” Miss Romanoff sticks out her hand for Bucky to shake. “Natasha Romanoff, but you can call me Nat. Steve still insists on calling me Miss and I about hit him every time he does it.” She smiles softly at Bucky, who takes her hand.

 

“The pleasure is all mine.”

 

The redhead drifts away, as effortlessly as a cottonwood seed on a spring breeze. She's always been stunning, in an unknowable sort of way, ever since she arrived in Clyde. Steve turns to Bucky, who’s staring off into space, eyebrows furrowed.

 

“What?” Steve asks. Bucky’s obviously racking his brain about something.

 

“Romanoff. The name sounds familiar, that’s all.”

 

Steve nods, and together they turn around, falling into step once again.

 

“You were right, Father Jim hasn’t changed a bit. Still has the same hair, the same droning voice, even the same -” his voice drops to a whisper so no one overhears “ -sour, uppity expression which seems to fit the man like a glove.”

 

Steve bursts out into laughter, knocking his shoulder into Bucky’s arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I'm not telling you where or why Bucky worked for Zola. Be patient, grasshopper, that time will come.  
> 2\. The first pure titanium was made in 1910, though it was discovered in 1791. I'm stretching the truth here, a bit, suggesting that not only did Zola figure out what titanium was useful for and made a pure sample of it, but created a titanium/vibranium alloy strong enough to be the arm. This couldn't have happened in the real world, essentially. Then again, the arm is impossible at this time as well. You've just gotta deal with my historical inconsistencies, okay?  
> 3\. Bucky used the stove in the servants' house to make the cookies.  
> 4\. The Barnes family piano is a Bechstein, and here is the famous Beethoven piece left on its music rack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU  
> 5\. Though the teddy bear didn't become popular until the early 1900s when the story of Theodore Roosevelt's hunting escapade made headlines, Bucky's beloved bear was specially made for him in honor of the nickname of his he liked most - Bucky Bear.  
> 6\. In doing research for various parts of this story, I found out that apparently there's an entire scything subculture, and it's a pretty valid alternative to cutting your grass with a motorized mower. Here's more information if you're interested: http://scythesupply.com/whyuseascythe.html  
> 7\. Both Bucky and Steve are Catholic in this story. I don't know if that's canon, but it's the religion I know most about and can write well. I'm, like, a smaller, less blind Matt Murdock. Go watch Daredevil if you haven't already. It'll change your life. (Look at me, talking about my faith always somehow turns into a Daredevil promotion)  
> 8\. Secesh is a deragotory Northern term for Southerner.  
> 9\. Typically, in Catholic masses, the men step out of the pew and let their wives go first when lining up for communion. *wink wink*  
> 10\. The quote "Your hand can seize today, but not tomorrow; and thoughts of your tomorrow are nothing but desire. Don't waste this breath, if your heart isn't crazy, since "the rest of your life" won't last forever," was written in the tenth century by Omar Khayyam, a Persian philosopher, poet, and mathematician.  
> Leave a comment if you're confused/curious/concerned about anything I haven't explained, I'll be happy to enlighten you!
> 
> (About the playlist: I'm working on it. It might be a little while, but it'll happen. I promise.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really is amazing how much one can get done with a couple days at the library. Enjoy!

_The only snippet of a memory Bucky has is of the feeling before, the sudden lurch of his heart as he realized something had gone wrong. Vaguely he hears men’s voices and even more distant is the thunderous roar of dynamite, echoing like ripples in his mind. But the one clear, distinct thing he can recollect is that feeling of sudden and irreversible dread. So clear is the memory that, at times like this, he can feel his face fall as the wire is tripped and the wall blown off in front of him._

 

_Bucky doesn’t honestly know if he’s alive or dead, for all the white he’s surrounded by. Even hospitals have muted pastel colors painted on their walls. He figures he must not be in a hospital, which makes him uncomfortable, so he tries to sit up. Is stopped by a firm hand over his right pectoral. A thick German accent in his ear. A strange sensation in his left arm._

 

_“Barnes, you must stay still. The procedure has already started.”_

 

_Slowly the world comes into view and he sees scientists, dressed up in their lab coats, hovering around him like wasps. Bucky’s unsteady gaze finally focuses on Zola. The man’s pig-snout face and beady eyes seem happy, and that alone is cause for concern. As if he were in molasses, his gaze slowly shifts down to his left shoulder, where he can hear an odd, high pitched whining. A strange metallic tool is working at his bicep; yet, where the rest of his arm should have been, there’s nothing. A fearful look overcomes his features, and Bucky makes eye contact with Zola again. He can no longer move, they must’ve sedated him with something, but his expression conveys his thoughts well enough._

 

_“It is state-of-the-art technology, decades ahead of its time. Centuries, even. We were fortunate to have a willing volunteer happen upon us so soon.”_

 

_Bucky falls unconscious again, flashes of light and memory blinking behind his eyelids, comfort amidst burning pain._

 

\--

 

Bucky knows what he’s feeling is wrong. Knows it down to the bottom of his very soul. But somehow, no matter how many times he tells himself it’s the worst kind of sin, no matter how many times he reminds himself of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, Bucky just can’t _stop feeling it_. There’s got to be some way to correct it, he thinks Monday morning as he washes his face over the sink, there just has to be. He’s heard of electrical therapies, of psychological treatments that rid the human brain of any such desire. Bucky quickly dries his face, taking the cloth from over his eyes and staring at his reflection.

 

His hair is down, still wet from having washed it only minutes ago. He’s shirtless, the scars along the metal of his left shoulder pink and angry. Bucky knows the scarring there and all down the left side of his body is unattractive; he’s known that since the day he first saw it. In his reflection he sees countless imperfections, from the monstrosity hanging off his left collarbone to the guarded look in his eyes to the scattered marks spread across his abdomen. The miracle of it all is how he’s managed to stay fit between escaping Zola and returning home. His abdominal muscles are taut, the sheer power he possesses glaringly evident in the way his broad shoulders move and are shaped. Bucky turns slightly, lifting his metal arm so he can see the burn scars that run all down his ribcage and even below his hip to his thighs. The webbing is still tender sometimes, still throbs when he over-exerts that side of his body. When he overuses the arm.

 

The arm is another story. Bucky doesn’t know how Zola managed it, but somehow the thing is connected to his brain, seared to his very nerves deep within his shoulder. He moves the arm down as if to examine it, even though he’s done so hundreds of times and this is a daily exercise. The gears inside whirr and shift, the plates moving along with the motions his brain is commanding. It’s stronger than his other arm, and lighter too, somehow. He’s found wearing a glove almost completely masks the fact that it’s not the arm God blessed him with, which is useful in social situations.

 

He moves the arm back to his side, stares into the eyes of his reflection again, and sighs.

 

No matter how hard he tries not to think of Steve, he still winds up doing it.

 

When he’d first encountered him, it was as Bucky was alone up in the library, a pipe in his hand as he observed the man coming up the path. Just a thin, nondescript blond, someone no one would really see unless they were looking. He watched as Steve disappeared under the porch, listened as Steve called out to him, listened as he entered the mansion.

 

He’d told Steve the truth. There had been a couple kids a few weeks back who’d meandered up the walkway, messing around, and stopped dead when they realized exactly whose property they’d wandered into. Both boys, about seventeen, turned around and ran back as fast as they could manage, but not before Bucky caught a glimpse of soaked trousers. It made him laugh to see people so scared of the estate.

 

Which is what drew him to Steve in the first place. Everyone he’d ever known in the town of Clyde was scared silly of his home, but not Steve. He had walked right in and hand delivered the letter, earning for himself Bucky’s admiration.

 

And Bucky knew exactly the moment when it had turned into something deeper.

 

It had been the bear. Bucky Bear, his most beloved toy from when he was a boy. Bucky knew it was useless to be sentimental, but seeing that bear sitting in the front parlor was such a fantastic surprise that he’d almost been rendered speechless. And all at once he’d hugged Steve, and feeling the slight, willowy man in his arms was a better feeling than any he’d ever gotten with a girl.

 

The notion terrifies him, so he tries to convince himself otherwise. But, for every image he forces in his head of Dot, the girl he’d met in Denver or Stacy, the gal he’d met in New York, three more appear of Steve bringing the lemonade out or Steve sweeping the floor or _God forbid_ Steve sitting in church, attention focused solely on the priest, shoulders back and posture impeccable. Bucky doesn’t seem to be capable of thinking of anything other than Steve, for the action of trying to forget seems to be the surest way to remember.

 

Bucky goes back into his room, quickly dressing himself in a shirt and pants, with a matching navy blue waistcoat and jacket. He attaches the cuff-links and pocket watch, though not before checking the time to see the hands at exactly 6:00. With a huff, he slips the watch in his pocket and decides to leave his hair down until Zola arrives.

 

The man had been vague in his letter, indicating that he was visiting to pay a debt and settle a score. Bucky was prepared to settle a score of his own, which included but was not limited to putting a bullet or three in the other man’s left shoulder. Bucky thinks about Zola as he makes his bed, pulling the comforter tight across the mattress, recalling meeting him all those years ago.

 

_1877 - New York City, NY_

 

_Bucky Barnes, a handsome, wealthy eighteen-year-old, stands in front of Grand Central Depot with his trunk in one hand and money for a first-class ticket in the other. He’d left the manor only a week ago, then sold the horse he’d ridden into the city. He was an Arabian; beautiful, well-trained, and durable. Bucky had gotten a good price for him._

 

_Bucky walks into the depot, recalling the news of Vanderbilt’s death. Becca had mentioned a few times in passing seeing the man when she was small, drinking wine with George or laughing with Winifred at a cocktail party. Words like ‘railroad’ and ‘investment’ and ‘trans-continental’ had always surrounded him, though Becca was too young to know what they meant when she heard them. Bucky wonders if he should mention Vanderbilt, see if he’ll get a better seat that way. Tell the window attendant that his father had known him._

 

_He tries it. The attendant looks over his wire-framed glasses and laughs._

 

_So Bucky gets on the train and finds a seat, a comfortable, cushioned one next to a window. He knows that if his father were here, the two of them would be sitting and conversing with millionaires and business executives. That’s no longer the case, however, and he finds himself staring out to the passing city as it flies by._

 

_A couple of hours in, a man sits across from him and sets his glass of champagne on the wooden table between them. Bucky looks up; the face isn’t familiar._

 

_“There’s word going around in the car ahead that the son of George Barnes is on board. Many of those men think highly of him and his father, and would like to extend that admiration to the next of kin. Do you, perhaps, know where James can be found?”_

 

_The man is not young, with graying blonde hair and piercing blue eyes beneath wrinkled eyelids. He very obviously knows who Bucky is, but is giving him an out. Bucky perks up in interest, seeing as this man knew his father._

 

_“You’ve found him.”_

 

_The man smiles, a dry thing, full of indifference. “Of course. You’re James, then. I must say, you’ve got your sister’s looks.”_

 

_His comment is odd, and Bucky tilts his head in confusion. “Excuse me?”_

 

_A hand is extended towards him, the man’s left, a ring on both his index and middle fingers. “Alexander Pierce. It’s a pleasure.”_

 

_Bucky’s body fills with rage, but it translates to a bright grin on his face. Looking in Alexander’s eyes is a better gift than any he’s ever received, because it means he can gain the man’s trust. Bucky takes his hand and shakes, grip firm and absolute. He wants nothing more than to punch Pierce until he can no longer speak properly. He wants nothing more than to destroy him, in every way he knows is possible._

 

_Becca inherited their mother’s sense of caring, and of perseverance. Bucky inherited her stubbornness and inability to let go of a grudge. Their father, George, was an academic, a businessman raised to be successful. Becca got his power with words and love for nature. Bucky got his ruthlessness and cunning intellect._

 

_Ideas take shape in Bucky’s mind, formulating from childhood ire and stories heard in whispers from Becca. Horrible ideas, wonderful ideas, ideas that would make one’s stomach churn. Bucky grins, like he’s pleased with meeting Pierce, meeting the man for whom he’s held a hatred his whole life. He stands with Pierce, their hands still joined. Bucky is almost as tall as the man and enjoys staring confidently into eyes he wishes to blind._

 

_Bucky puts his right hand confidently over Pierce’s, overflowing with fake enthusiasm. Pierce has fallen victim to it, which makes Bucky the cat that got the cream._

 

_“Oh, no, sir, the pleasure’s all mine.”_

 

_~_

 

_The car ahead is full of faces he recognizes from the paper. Rockefeller, sitting with a pipe in his right hand, stares at him with smiling eyes. Carnegie is next to Morgan, the two men laughing at something until the door opens, at which point they turn and nod to the two newcomers. John Astor stands and claps Pierce on the back, but his attention is on Bucky._

 

_“You’ve found him, I see. The fabled lost child of George Barnes. James, was it? Yes, they named you after the president. James Buchanan. George wrote me and said Winifred was having a time coming up with a name, so they just looked at that day’s paper and chose the first name they saw.”_

 

_The room laughs. Bucky smiles, having never heard that particular story. Pierce speaks before Bucky is able to, raising his hands and voice._

 

_“I do believe this calls for a celebration. Waiter, more food and drinks for the young man!”_

 

_~_

 

_Bucky finds himself talking to Astor and a man he doesn’t recognize, an accented fellow who introduced himself as Schmidt and said he’s in the mining industry. They’re talking about Bucky, naturally._

 

_“What brings you onto the Union Pacific? Manifest Destiny, I presume?”_

 

_“No, sir, it was actually on a whim that I decided to leave. I imagine the Manor will be seeing me again in a few months.”_

 

_Schmidt offers Bucky a temporary job in Denver, a way to make more connections and get a taste for business. He agrees, looking forward to climbing the industrial ladder and making a name for himself._

 

_~_

 

_He meets Zola the first day there. The strange, odd-smelling man has a short attention span and an accent like Schmidt’s. Something is off about him, but Bucky puts that thought in the back of his mind. He talks to Schmidt and his co-workers, making plans for Bucky’s time there. That first day, he goes out on the town and meets a girl, and is drunk and jovial upon his return to his hotel suite. He falls asleep dreaming of the opportunity he expects to find in the West, of ruling an empire as large as the country itself._

 

Present Day

 

Bucky blinks the memory away, tossing the last throw pillow onto his bed. This happens quite often; he gets so lost in a memory that his mind and body are in two separate places at once, both working equally efficiently. His bed is made and he has no recollection of putting the pillowcases on or fluffing them, moments ago lost in the memory of that train. It had been the Union Pacific line, a straight shot from New York to Promontory Point in Utah where it then merged into the Central Pacific line. The presence of the tycoons in the front car hadn’t been publicized for fear of a heist or robbery. The West is wild, everyone knows that, and no one back then was going to risk the safety of America’s most powerful just for some extra attention.

 

As soon as he’s finished tidying up his bedroom, Bucky walks over to his office. In there, behind a door that’s nearly always locked and slightly hidden behind his desk, is his weapons collection. He slides the key from behind two books in the bookshelf, the iron heavy in his flesh hand as he goes to unlock the door. It swings open, and Bucky is then met with the overpowering smell of metal and gunpowder, a smell he’s always strangely found comforting. He inhales deeply. Any nerves he’d had are settled now, replaced with a calm confidence. Bucky runs his hands over the various pistols, revolvers, and knives, admiring each one and trying to figure out which would be the best.

 

The Colt Walker is powerful, and would hurt the bastard more than anything else in his ownership, but it’s large and not ideal for inconspicuous concealment. His Smith & Wesson Model 3 is beautiful, with engravings in the wood of the handle and on the barrel. He’s tempted, but knows that if the deal goes sour he needs to have a gun in his hands that Zola would rather step on than steal. Bucky won’t allow the man that pleasure.

 

He settles on the Remington Model 1858, a common revolver only for the fact that it saw use in the War and out West. It was manufactured a year before his birth, which means it’s over 30 years old and worn. The gun is unremarkable, no identifying engravings or additions.

 

Bucky puts on a belt holster, but rather than at his hip he fastens it around his waist so that the gun rests at his side, along the scarring under his left arm. That way it’s hidden by his coat and yet still remains accessible should he have to reach over and draw it quickly. Something he learned quickly about his metal arm is that it’s bulletproof, a handy trait in situations like this. All he has to do is open his palm to the barrel of his enemy’s gun and he’s protected. He’s still an excellent shot, having had practice since he was a boy. Becca showed him how to shoot a rifle at scraps of wood placed at the edge of the forest behind the gardens. They’d stand at the back entrance to the greenhouse and practice, sometimes all day when weather allowed and Bucky hadn’t locked himself in the library to study.

 

He’d been a natural at it, still is. Bucky holsters the weapon and adds a few small knives just for good measure.

 

According to his watch, it’s now 6:25. Bucky closes the door to his safe and walks downstairs, slipping his gloves over both hands as is habit. He strolls through the first floor idly, not hungry for breakfast yet but not willing to begin preparing for Zola either. As he sees the bear, still sitting on the chaise lounge as if waiting for something, Bucky’s mind flashes to something Steve had mentioned. The piano.

 

He beelines to the back room, memories of learning to play flashing behind his eyes. It was one of the few things his mother had taken the time to do with him, and yet Bucky couldn’t remember the most recent time he’d done it. He pushes open the door and, upon seeing the instrument, releases a breath he hadn’t been aware that he was holding. _Moonlight Sonata_ sits on the music rack and he laughs softly. Becca loved that song dearly, and for her birthday one year he’d transposed the melody from what he remembered of it. He sees imperfections in the notes and lines, but as he takes a seat he realizes he doesn’t particularly care anyway. Bucky places his fingertips at the keys, instinctually landing on the lowest C of the treble clef and highest C of the bass. Slowly he warms up, rolling his fingers on the keys and finding that they still play beautifully. He does as many warm-up exercises as he can recall, before flicking his eyes up to the music and allowing a mix of muscle memory and knowledge of notes to take over his hands.

 

He feels as if he’s floating, the acoustics of the room causing the sensation to be amplified. The music surrounds him like an embrace, like _the_ embrace he can’t seem to rid his mind of. His head dips and his body moves along with his arms, eyes fluttering closed as he drifts back to the first time he played this for Becca. Bucky allows himself to feel free, a sensation he hasn’t felt since all those years ago in front of Grand Central. He hasn’t been free for a long time, and as the sonata changes tempo to something faster and more complicated, he experiences an anger deep in his gut. He thinks of the years he spent under Zola’s watchful eye. The months in excruciating pain, being experimented on like a human lab rat. The weeks in escape, running and fighting like a feral animal. The nights spent in the backs of supply wagons and carts, thin as a rail. It all comes to the light as he plays, emotions of his own pouring into the notes he’s now playing by memory.

 

Bucky stops short in the middle of a measure, overwhelmed and frightened. His eyes fly open and his hands jerk away from the keys as if they were burning. It was disconcerting, more so than a flashback or dream, the complete resurfacing of old feelings.. His breathing is ragged. Suddenly, he’s very hungry.

 

Bucky leaves the room and makes his way to the front door. On his way, he grabs Bucky Bear, deciding to keep it in the kitchen of the servants’ quarters. He exits the house and walks along the length of the porch. To the northeast of the mansion is the servants’ house, a nondescript two-story that looks similar to the farmhouses that dot the surrounding area. Bucky spent most of his early years there, playing with Becca and Dolly and learning to cook. He finds comfort in preparing food, despite the obvious reasons he has reservations about talking about it. For breakfast he typically has granola with cream and strawberries, and today is no different. After he lost his arm and became accustomed to the smell of burning flesh, he found that eating meat didn’t appeal to him any longer. He much preferred fruits, vegetables, wheats, and dairy to the meat of some unfortunate farm animal. And so that is what his meals consisted of, and that’s what he kept in his kitchen.

 

It takes him less than five minutes to prepare his breakfast, and as soon as he does, he takes the bowl and spoon out to the small porch facing the east.  The sun rose almost two hours ago, so he isn’t afforded the luxury of watching it this morning. But it still shines on his face as he sits in a wicker chair and savors the sweet taste of berry and cream on the fibrous crunch of the granola. Times like this remind him of God, of His beautiful creation, of His undying love for humanity. It reminds him of his faith, the whole reason he found strength amidst the most difficult times in his life. He has no doubt in his mind that God exists, but with the arrival of Steven he’s found that he’s been asking a lot of questions lately. What kind of God, he wonders, condemns the harmless act of love? He knows it’s an insensible question, but he still finds himself throwing it out to the rolling hills in front of him. He won’t sacrifice his faith to love Steve. But he knows, deep within himself, that loving Steve could mean completion, happiness in a soul he’d concluded long ago was undeserving.

 

It makes him think, as well, what if Steve feels the same? There’s little to no chance that’s the case, but regardless, it stirs feelings inside that are beyond taboo. Images of lips on lips, hands on skin, eyes locked on one another form as his mind wanders down the rabbit hole, and Bucky quickly buries those thoughts deep in the recesses of his brain. He can’t allow himself to think God will forgive him for sodomy, can’t allow himself to believe anything other than what he’s been told. Bucky spoons the last of the cream and the last strawberry into his mouth. A glance at his pocket watch informs him that it’s now 7:00.

 

He cleans up his bowl and spoon, setting them aside to dry once he’s rinsed them off. The servants’ quarters doesn’t have running water but there’s a well a few dozen yards away. Bucky pumps the handle and soon water is flowing out, so he quickly washes the dishes and fills a wooden bucket to use later for cleaning. He brings the bucket and dishes back into the house, setting them all on the counter. Since he wants to save face, even when it’s his sworn enemy, he decides to prepare some appetizers for Zola’s arrival.

 

Bucky thinks for a few minutes, then decides on a simple rice pudding with cinnamon. He gathers the ingredients and begins cooking, the recipe all in his head.

 

When it’s all said and done, he has six small shell-shaped cups filled with the thick substance, each with a small amount of cinnamon sitting on top. He sets each cup on a plate and sets the plate on a tray, along with a pitcher of some sweet tea he’d had brewing over the weekend. Bucky finds some small dessert spoons in a drawer and sets them on the plate, one next to each cup of pudding. Finally, he puts six glasses on the tray. He picks it up, careful to balance it as he opens the door.

 

Bucky then makes his way back to the main house, a light breeze on the air causing his coat to billow up behind him as he walks. He huffs, annoyed at himself for not buttoning it. Before long he reaches the house and goes inside, balancing the tray delicately. He sets it in the front parlor, exactly where he’d had the tray out for Steve, Sam, and Clint.

 

He hadn’t realized until he’d stopped, but over the course of making the pudding and bringing it in, he’d been idly humming _Battle Hymn of the Republic_.

 

-

 

Three hours pass, and soon it’s 11:30. Bucky is sitting in the parlor, sipping some tea and reading a book, _Crime and Punishment_ by Fyodor Dostoevsky. He’s about halfway through when there’s a firm knock on the door.

 

His heart drops, right hand suddenly shaking. He sets the tea and book on the side table to his left. Taking a few deep breaths, Bucky braces himself for the moments ahead. His body language is key, can’t let Zola see any hesitation. With a final exhale, he stands up, straightens his coat, and walks over to the front door.

 

As soon as he pulls it open he almost collapses in relief.

 

“Bucky, is Zola here yet?” Steve’s whispering, looking around, trying to see in behind him. Bucky opens the door further.

 

“No, punk, he isn’t. Why are _you_ here?”

 

Steve steps inside, eyes wide and frantic. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, but across the lawn he can see the gray horse Steve rode the other day, along with the saddlebags emblazoned with the United States Postal Service logo. Steve doesn’t have a letter in his hand for him.

 

“Bucky, I was sitting in the office a few hours back, waiting for Clint to sort through the mail, you know?” Bucky nods, closing the door behind Steve. “So these two ladies come in, well, Miss Maximoff and Missus Carter, the gal with the twin brother and the Carter cousin who’s married to the prosecutor. Not Peggy, it was Sharon and Wanda. So they come in all excited, their feathers obviously ruffled by something. So naturally, I, sitting at the window, ask what they’re on about, and they just ‘bout explode with words. By the time I can -” he takes a breath, Bucky leading the two of them to a small sitting room next to the front parlor, designed more for one-on-one conversations “- can get one of ‘em to talk clear, she goes on about this portly fella who’s just ridden into town with this _posse_ , a group about seven people total. By that time I was thinkin’ of you, of Zola, and so I asked if anyone had asked what business they were here for.”

 

Steve pauses, lifting his eyes to gaze into Bucky’s. He looks incredibly distraught, troubled by the news he’d sharing. Calmly, Bucky nods, prompting Steve to continue.

 

“They said he told Mister Lang they were in town to settle a debt.”

 

Bucky feels his face go pale, the weight of the revolver at his side suddenly not nearly enough. He presses a finger to his brow, thinking. There’s no doubt in either of the men’s minds what the ‘debt’ is they’re settling. Steve doesn’t know the details, but he seems to have worked out generally what’s going to happen.

 

They aren’t coming for money or property. They’re coming for nothing less than Bucky’s life.

 

“Alright. Since you’re here, Steven, how good a shot are you?” He asks hurriedly, standing. Steve stands as well.

 

“Fair. My eyesight’s terrible at a distance, but I can hold my own regardless.”

 

Bucky nods, now walking back up to the office. Steve trails behind. “How far you think they are from here?”

 

“Sharon and Wanda said they were at one of the inns having lunch when the two of ‘em came to me with the news. So, no more than half an hour, I’d say.”

 

Bucky pushes open the office door and digs the key from its spot. He goes to the safe door, fumbling with the lock as Steve stands back.

 

“Bucky? What’s in there?”

 

“Might just be my salvation, if we’re lucky.”

 

He pulls the door open and hears a faint gasp. A smile spreads across Bucky’s face and he turns to Steve, who’s sporting a matching grin.

 

Together they pull every rifle and revolver and pistol and shotgun they can find out of the arsenal, and set up in the library. It’s the same spot where Bucky had watched Steve come up the path, and therefore grants a perfect view of anyone entering the property. Bucky gets some pillows from a linen closet down the hall and spreads them across the floor so the two have something soft to sit on. He regrets not bringing up the rice pudding, but figures that’ll be the pair’s reward if they survive. Boxes of ammunition surround the two, and soon they’re sitting patiently, chatting as if this weren’t a life or death situation.

 

“Wait, so you’re saying you met _Rockefeller_? And J. P. Morgan? I’ll be damned, Barnes, you do get around.”

 

Bucky laughs, head tipping back and lightly hitting the bookcase he’s leaned up against. They’re facing each other, Steve’s legs tucked up under his chin and Bucky’s stretched out to the side. “Yessir. And I was only eighteen, didn’t have the slightest clue as to what in the good Lord’s name I was doing. Just hopped on a train and off I was.”

 

He hadn't mentioned Pierce's name. Or Schmidt's, for that matter.

 

Steve smiles softly, Bucky’s eyes tracing the movement. He’s falling fast, he realizes, and it scares him. More than Zola, more than what that man could do and had done to him. The thought of falling in love with Steven Rogers terrifies him.

 

Just as he’s about to ask Steve to tell another story (that one about Stan and the Parker kid was hilarious), the smaller man’s head whips toward the window, eyes fixated on something outside. Bucky’s heart sinks, and Steve turns his head back to look Bucky in the eye, a fierce, determined look covering his features. Almost as if it were choreographed, the two drop down and grab the closest firearm to them, having loaded everything beforehand. They aim the barrels of their respective weapons out the small crack in the window, Bucky peering over the edge just in time to see the posse Steve had described emerge fully from the woods.

 

Zola is on a stocky, short horse in front, dressed to the nines with even a hat on his head. Bucky can’t stop the growl that rumbles from the back of his throat at the sight of the same eyes that haunt his dreams, even if from a distance. The group stops and most dismount. Every single one of them is armed. Steve, quiet and still next to him, is almost eerily calm. Bucky doesn’t give it much thought past appreciation, and opens his mouth to yell down.

 

“Arnim Zola!” Bucky knows his voice carries, knows this house like the back of his hand, knows the space distorts the human brain’s ability to know where the source of the noise comes from. Some men whirl around to the woods, some aim at the outbuildings. Only two, including Zola, face the house. He aims directly at the man’s forehead.

 

“James Barnes, I’d hoped you’d get my letter. Come out, we can talk better face to face!”

 

“That’s not happening, Arnim. I say we make a deal, you leave me alone and I graciously let you outta here with no bullet in your brain.”

 

Zola noticeably flinches, but his smirk remains. “There is no deal to be made. I came here to settle a debt, and so a settlement shall happen.”

 

“One of your men step foot on that porch, they’re dead. No one will hear, Arnim, these hills mask the sound of gunshots like you wouldn’t believe.”

 

His heel taps Steve’s. The blond nods slowly, understanding.

 

One of the men, a pointy-faced brunet with muscles that push the boundaries of his cheap button-up, lowers his gun and begins to stroll toward the porch. A breath is released next to him, and in the next instant the man is dead with a bullet in his heart. Bucky tries to hide his smile. _Fair shot my ass_ , he thinks.

 

“One down, six to go!”

 

Zola’s expression tightens, smirk gone. There are four guns aimed at the house now, one still sweeping in a wide arc at the outside area.

 

“James, do not spill any more blood. These are good men. I merely want to speak.”

 

“Ain’t that what we’re doing?”

 

Zola sighs. “Alright, I concede. There is still a debt to be paid. Now that you’ve shot someone important to me, so shall happen to someone important to you.”

 

Bucky’s brow furrows, his grip on the gun tightening.

 

“Your little blond friend? We shall take his life, then yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things -  
> 1\. Don't ever begin to expect to see updates this fast. This is out of the ordinary. An anomaly.  
> 2\. The resources I used to learn about the Union Pacific railroad were unclear at best. As far as I could tell, there was a railroad line that went through both New York and Denver at that time (1877). Just roll with it, guys, I'm not a historian.  
> 3\. The Barnes mansion has running water, a luxury back then. George and Winifred got it as soon as possible, in 1845, two years after they were married. Only the wealthiest families had it that early.  
> 4\. Getting from one train car to another back then was probably a struggle. Kudos to Bucky for getting through that.  
> 5\. This is the Bucky's gun of choice: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Remington_Model_1858 I was tempted to put a Winchester reference in there but I felt it'd be too obvious.  
> 6\. The fact that Bucky is a man and does his own cooking is preposterous for a man of his status and looks at this time. According to societal expectations, he should have a wife who does all that for him. I'd like to think he honestly just doesn't give a single fuck.  
> 7\. Here's the recipe for Bucky's rice pudding: http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/isabels-rice-pudding-with-cinnamon
> 
> I love comments! Leave comments! Ask whatever questions you might have. I love hearing from you, it honestly makes my whole week.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note - this fic is NOT beta read. If you'd like to help me out monumentally and assume the title of beta-reader for this story, let me know and we'll figure it out.
> 
> School has started, and we all know what that means. :( Less time = slower updates. I'll try my best but it may be awhile before the next chapter comes out.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I liked this chapter a lot, but it does have some gore if you're sensitive to that. I'll change the warnings, but if you've been reading this fic and don't pay attention, this is your TURN BACK NOW signal if you're affected in any way by that stuff.
> 
> Super points to every single person who comments and/or hits the kudos button on this fic. It means the world and pretty much just motivates me to write.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Steve’s vision blurs. His head is throbbing, and he's distantly aware of the wetness that covers the left side of it. Blood, he thinks, of course it's blood. Behind him, up the stairs and down the hall, he can hear his mother’s pained voice breaking like sunlight through the horrid, dark storm of his father’s rage._

 

_“Please, don't hurt him. You've done enough already. Leave Steven alone, he has nothing to do with this.”_

 

_“He has everything to do with this, Sarah! He's our child, correct? Or is he? Is he my son, or are you more of a whore than I already know? I always thought you looked at other men for too long, smiled too much whenev -”_

 

_“Stop! No! I've been nothing but loyal to you and this is how you repay -”_

 

 _“So it is true. He_ is _the bastard child of some scum, some filthy shit who you just couldn’t resist whoring yourself out to. And you chose him over me? Bore a_ son _with him, rather than me?”_

 

_Steve listens, unable to move, certain a few ribs are broken and trying to stave off heaving his lunch up onto the wooden floorboards. It's not a surprise, hearing that he’s not his father’s son, but it still makes his heart go cold. Desperately he pleads to his mother, silently begging her to defend herself, defend them. But the silence permeates the air in the house until the sound of a loud smack echoes through the hallways, followed by the dull thud of a limp body._

 

_Tears run down Steve’s face, burning and acidic, as he hears the thunder of his father’s footsteps towards the stairs. A memory resurfaces as he struggles to get up, an image of Sarah Rogers stoic in the face of Joseph’s harsh words and brutal punches._

 

_“Ma - mama, why didn’t you jus - just stay down?”_

 

_“Because, and you listen close, Steven, you always stand back up.”_

 

_Still wobbly, he pulls himself up onto his knees as Joseph Rogers rounds the corner to the top of the stairs. He steps down them one at a time. Steve, only eleven years of age, wipes the blood from his nose and uses any remaining strength he might have to push his legs up underneath him, the strain his thigh muscles undertaking almost too much to bear. But he does it, even though he’s got a hand pressed against the wall and there’s definitely a smudge of blood there now. His mind races, and Steve tilts his chin up defiantly in the face of his madman of a father. Everything aches, but he manages to get his hands up in a defensive position in front of himself, no longer relying on the wall._

 

_“You tryin’ ‘a defend your whore mother, boy?” The man’s thick Irish accent gets clearer as he gets angrier, and his eyes are alight with a fire that puts fear deep in the bottom of Steve’s heart. He sucks in a breath, faulty lungs rattling as he does so._

 

_“You hurt her. You hurt my ma. Don’ care if you’re my pops or not, you hurt her and I take it personal.”_

 

_Joseph’s eyebrows fly up. He reaches out, hand like a viper lunging toward its prey, and grips the front of Steve’s shirt. The man lifts the boy up and looks him in the eye, the two now face to face. Steve swats at Joseph’s arms but to no avail._

 

_“Personal, huh? You forget everything I’ve done for this family, everything I’ve worked for, and throw it out to rot just because you take someone else’s problems personal? Damn right you ain’t my son.”_

 

_Steve squirms, staring into mud brown eyes, the color of midnight. Sarah’s are a pure Irish green, which sparkle when she’s excited and flare when she’s angry. Steve stares into an abyss, into a hateful gaze he’d never thought would be directed at him. His father’s furious, bottomless brown eyes burn themselves into his retinas._

 

_So he spits at them._

 

_Joseph lets out a howl of disgust and drops Steven. Wiping at his eyes to get the bloody saliva out of them, he momentarily forgets about the boy on the floor, who is scrambling to get away. A grunt sounds from behind Steve, Joseph too full of contempt to formulate proper words. Steve struggles to right himself, to get his balance. He’s stopped by one, two, three kicks to his side and a final, degrading one to his rear._

 

_The front door opens and slams shut and the last thing Steve thinks before passing out is a fleeting prayer to anyone who’d listen._

 

\--

 

Steve adjusts his grip on the rifle and spins around, sitting with his back to the section of wall underneath the window. He aims at the door to the library now, paranoid of any intruders he should know logically aren’t there. He feels his breathing become ragged, the color drain from his face. All familiar feelings.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Bucky whispers beside him, an echo of Steve’s thoughts. “You ain’t doing no such thing!” Bucky hollers down to Zola, but Steve can hear footsteps against the gravel. He swallows a lump in his throat.

 

Zola’s whiny voice responds. “Oh, but we are. A debt, don’t you recall? You signed a contract with us and broke it, I’m merely here to collect my dues. As for your companion, any friend of yours is an enemy of mine.”

 

Bucky releases a frustrated huff beside him. Steve can tell there’s something more going on here, something (or many things) that Bucky hasn’t told him. He keeps his aim steady on the door.

 

“ _Get me the Walker_.” Bucky hisses, and Steve looks to him confusedly. Bucky’s got this weird look in his eyes, almost wild, but detached and steady. He nods, and Steve gives him the revolver, luckily finding it right next to his left knee. Bucky secures that in his right hand, the rifle tucked against his metal arm.

 

“The contract I signed didn’t include any of the things you put me through, Arnim. Gotta say, though, the arm has come in mighty handy. Allows me to do stuff like this -”

 

A shot goes off, the kick from the rifle totally absorbed by the metal of Bucky’s left arm. There’s no way anyone should be able to fire a rifle one-handed, Steve thinks, yet hears something hit the gravel even though his ears are ringing. Bucky fires off one more, which is immediately followed by a cry of anguish.

 

“You taught me well, Zola. Thank you for that.”

 

Steve hears the front door of the mansion slam open. Bucky fires off another shot before he ducks down and assumes the same position Steve’s in. He’s still got a gun in each hand, and when Steve looks over, he sees Bucky set the pistol down and shrug his jacket off that arm. He then trades the rifle to his free hand and takes his suit jacket off all the way, finally putting the two firearms back in their original hands. He looks over to Steve, hair loose and wild in waves framing his face.

 

“When they get through that door, shoot all of ‘em but Zola. Hear me?”

 

Steve nods solemnly. “Loud and clear.”

 

Together they stand, both with their respective guns trained on the door. They can hear things crashing downstairs, doors slamming against the walls, voices laughing and jeering. Steve feels Bucky bristle next to him as something hits the keys of the piano, as the ghastly sound of something cracking reverberates through the house. Bucky’s breathing gets harsher.

 

“He’ll never be able to redeem himself from this,” he growls lowly, voice scratchy and threatening. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him, I’ll make him regret he ever lived.”  Steve swallows, setting his cheek against the cold wood-and-metal of the rifle. His arms are beginning to tremble from holding it for so long.

 

Within seconds, Zola and his remaining two men are coming up the stairs. Steve’s heart thuds in his ears as he hears them open door after door, obviously taunting the two men they’re searching for. He and Bucky hear the men knocking books off shelves, throwing lamps on the floor, pulling blankets and sheets from the bedroom and closets. Steve tenses at the thought of them finding the key to Bucky’s safe, but remembers they took all the firearms out anyway. It still rubs him wrong that these men are showing such disrespect for Bucky’s home. Sure, he’s heard of bandits attacking stagecoaches or homes of wealthy men, and in such cases they usually raze the property down to the dirt it was built on. But this is different. These men have no reason to be committing such acts, they won’t be better off if they knock over some furniture and muss up some nicely folded linens. It’s utter insolence, the likes of which more likely found in the wild frontier of California or Nevada rather than upstate New York. It’s then that Steve makes the connection in his head. That’s exactly what these strangers are.

 

Feral bandits from the West, led by a criminal mastermind with no regard for moral conduct. Steve goes even stiller, his mind racing. What if Bucky had been one of them? What if Bucky had done those unspeakable, unlawful things, only because he signed a contract? There’s little to no chance, based on what Bucky’d yelled down to Zola, that the contract included the actions Bucky wanted to kill the man for. It was looking more and more like a case of blackmail, Steve thought, Bucky had probably felt he needed to pay Zola back for something and ended up between a rock and a hard place.

 

Still. Has Bucky stolen wares from innocent businessmen? Has he held hostage good men, or women? Children? Has he set fire to property, to family homes, to entire livelihoods?

 

Has he killed? Is Steve standing ready to defend a murderer?

 

Then Steve remembers his own actions of a few moments ago. He himself is a killer, and that fact settles heavy and cold in his heart. Defiant to the voice in his head yelling for him to run, he repositions his rifle, grip steady once more.

 

If anything, his loyalty to Barnes has increased, knowing what he knows. Bucky is a man, Steve thinks, a flawed, broken man in search of redemption.

 

It’s at this moment the bandits burst through the library doors. Steve fires off two perfect shots, eyesight clear as a bell. Both bullets hit their marks in Zola’s cronies’ foreheads. The two men fall limp, leaving Zola standing alone in the middle of the doorway.

 

Bucky fires a shot from the revolver, followed by one from the rifle, each landing solidly in Zola’s left shoulder, above his heart as to not kill him. He slumps to the floor. Bucky then tosses the guns away, leaving his hands open, and reaches under his vest. He draws out a long blade, about the length of Steve’s forearm, curved to give it a menacing glint in the right lighting. In Bucky’s hand it looks like a claw, a talon reaching for something to slice into, something to deface. He walks over to where Zola lays and swings his leg over the man’s waist. Steve imagines Barnes must look similar to a reaper in Zola’s eyes, a bringer of death looming over him with rage in his eyes. He tilts his head to the side before dropping to his knees, one on either side, straddling Zola’s stomach. The wounded man’s eyes widen in fear, sweat glistening in the noontime sunlight drifting in from the window behind them.

 

Steve stands in the shadows, a sentry poised to defend his charge at the drop of a finger.

 

With catlike grace, Barnes leans down in a manner so intimate Steve almost looks away. Zola is outwardly disgusted, that much is evident in his face, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t squirm. Bucky plants his free hand, his left hand, just next to Zola’s head. He brings the blade to his neck, the shining silver pressing lightly against his windpipe. Bucky leans further, so they’re flush chest-to-chest and their noses almost touch.

 

“How did you know about Steven?”

 

His voice resembles that of a lion, a threatening roar. Even if Zola tried to get up, he wouldn’t be able to, not with the weight and anger of Bucky on top of him. Bucky looks like a warrior, Steve thinks, an Indian warrior who belongs more in the woods than on the streets of New York.

 

“Rumlow saw him depart from the Post Office without any post in his saddlebags, and once he saw the same horse in front of the estate, I put two and two together.”

 

Bucky smirks, leaning back ever so slightly, his hold unwavering. “So you decided to kill him? Just because he’s here doesn’t mean he’s an ally. And besides, Rumlow’s word is about as good as a vulture’s.”

 

“You wouldn’t let anyone near you who wasn’t a friend or mortal enemy. I know you, James, and you’d rather be alone than understood.”

 

Bucky presses the blade harder, blood welling up along the sharp line of the metal. His mouth is twisted up in a sneer. “Maybe so. But unlike you, I don’t punish people for the loyalty they show me.”

 

Steve sees Zola’s hand move down a moment after Bucky notices it, and with reflexes quick as lightning he moves his knee so that it pins Zola’s wrist to the floor. Bucky shifts his weight and Steve hears a sickening _crunch_ , the bone cracking under such pressure. Zola howls out in pain, but Bucky doesn’t budge.

 

“We can settle this one of two ways. Either I slit your throat and throw your body away in the woods for the wolves, or you tell me everything you know about Hydra and I dump you in the town square with little more than the bullets in your shoulder and the clothes on your back. Your choice.”

 

Steve doesn’t know what Hydra is, or why Bucky is asking Zola about it, but images of the multi-headed beast from Greek myth appear in his mind’s eye and he knows whatever it is it can’t be good. He shifts ever so slightly, getting ready to bring the rifle to his shoulder again. He knows Bucky was lying, and in all fairness, Zola should know that too. There’s no way he’s getting out of this alive.

 

Zola stammers over his words. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Can you get off me, already? Please?”

 

It’s subtle, but Steve sees the edges of a grin ghosting over Bucky’s lips. Zola doesn’t seem to catch it, too focused on his shattered wrist, but Bucky appears to be _enjoying_ watching Zola beg him for mercy. Steve doesn’t know whether to feel proud or nauseated at that.

 

“No. You’ll tell me what you know right here, right now, under my terms. Unless you’d like this blade to find a home in your jugular?”

 

“No! No, I’ll tell you if you spare me.” Bucky nods, urging him to continue. “Yes, Hydra. It grows within our country under the noses of the most wealthy. Johann Schmidt, Alexander Pierce, Grant Ward, Wilson Fisk, these are just droplets of water in the ocean of Hydra supporters hidden within the nation’s infrastructure. They seek to gain more wealth, achieve an upper hand in investments and stocks through the merchandise they loot from others. You already know, Barnes, how they do this, but for the sake of _Steven_ , they’ve trained their soldiers to be - “

 

Steve cuts him off, having already figured it out. “Bandits and hitmen, I gathered that much already.”

 

Both men on the floor give him looks, Zola’s full of annoyance but Bucky’s changing swiftly from confusion to realization to appreciation. Now he knows, now he understands that Steve put together what he did and better yet doesn’t judge him for it. Or, at least, isn’t running away yet.

 

It seems to give Bucky a confidence boost. Zola swallows audibly, now in the presence of not one but two men who have knowledge of what he’s done.

 

“I’ve told you all that I know. I’ve been Schmidt’s right hand since the very beginning, there’s nothing more to it if I don’t know any more.”

 

Bucky’s eyes narrow, unsatisfied. “That’s untrue. What about the Red Room? The Black Widow project? What do you know about those things?”

 

“I was not made aware of any such establishments.”

 

The blade digs deeper into Zola’s neck, dangerously close to severing something vital. Blood runs freely, down to the tip of the knife and dripping onto the floor. There’s a considerable puddle forming.

 

Steve cocks the rifle, lifting it to his shoulder. He aims it at Zola’s face.

 

“Tell Barnes what you know, ‘else you’re getting the same as your henchmen.”

 

Zola’s eyes bug out. “I know nothing more! I swear it!” He’s looking at Steve now, sputtering and blubbering about how much he doesn’t know. Steve huffs in frustration.

 

“Can I just shoot him, Buck?”

 

Bucky seems to consider that option for a moment. He sits back, no longer leaning over Zola, releasing the grip he’d had on Zola’s throat. The cut there is angry and bleeding freely. Bucky wipes his knife on Zola’s pristine white shirt sleeve.

 

“You know what? Sure. But not anywhere fatal. Someplace that’ll hurt like a -”

 

Zola cuts him off, panicked. “Alright! Alright, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. Just let me go afterwards, correct?”

 

Bucky hums _mm hmm,_ acting utterly bored with the whole affair.

 

“Alright. You are aware of the Red Room, yes?”

 

Bucky nods.

 

“It is run by Pierce. He trains Hydra’s soldiers there, much like how Schmidt trained you. But Pierce has much vaster numbers, he has trained dozens of men in the past few months alone. The Black Widow project is an initiative created and led by Vasily Karpov, seeking to create the perfect female outlaw, one that the authorities never anticipate. That program has widely been viewed as a failure, however, seeing as only one girl has successfully completed the training and ran away much like you did. The Red Room, however, has had unprecedented success and much of the railways and wagon trails of the West are controlled by Pierce.”

 

Bucky is now listening with rapt attention. “Where did this all start? Who created this?”

 

“Pierce did, trying to recreate the soldier we had made. Ours was the first, and the most perfect.”

 

Bucky’s face goes pale. “Me. It started with me.”

 

“Yes. We have had quite a few volunteers since the end of your time with us, and even more have gone to Pierce looking for wealth and adventure. Some have come looking for a thrill, some for money, others for penance. To pay for their own crimes.”

 

Bucky is slack-jawed, eyes full of disbelief and horror. Steve is dumbfounded, wondering how within the span of fifteen years this all managed to happen. How Bucky went from a wide-eyed teenager drinking champagne to the unwilling leader of a new era of crime.

 

“The authorities are too scared of us to pursue any of our leads. And besides, Pierce pays them well enough that they keep their mouths shut in the event of a public outcry. And then there’s Wilson Fisk, who leads a branch of Hydra in New York City, and controls much of Manhattan. The list goes on, James, as far as the eye can see. Hydra grows underneath us all and there is no fire large enough to put it out.”

 

“There has to be some organization dedicated to stopping you. There must be someone out there with an order for your head on a spike.”

 

“Other than you and your friend here, I don’t believe that’s the case. And it’s no use, even if there were more like you. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

 

Bucky’s jaw tightens just a fraction before he’s lunging, metal hand tight on the man’s neck, blood seeping out through metallic fingers. Zola chokes, eyes bulging, as he’s asphyxiated.

 

“I’ll find every last one of you, every last cent of dirty money in Hydra’s accounts, every last crook who thinks this is nothing more than an adrenaline rush. I will flush you cowards out of hiding and kill you all,” he hisses, fist getting tighter and tighter until Steve hears a faint _Hail Hydra_ , followed by wet gurgling and Zola going limp.

 

Bucky lets go of Zola’s throat and, almost as if on a whim, slaps his metal hand across the corpse’s right cheek. The head lolls heavily to the left.

 

The two stay silent for quite a long time, Bucky kneeling and hunched over Zola’s lifeless body and Steve staring with the rifle in his hands. Eventually Bucky looks up to Steve, expression unreadable.

 

“I’m genuinely surprised you didn’t shoot me the moment you figured out what it was they were and what that meant I’d been.”

 

Steve shrugs, setting the butt of the rifle on the ground next to him. He keeps a hand on the barrel, which by now has gone cold. “I figured you either were blackmailed or physically had no choice. All that brainwashing stuff they talk about, not hard to imagine guys like that’d have access to that sort of technology. And ‘sides, running out on you for being a murderer would be a bit hypocritical of me considering I’d killed a man not five minutes prior.”

 

Bucky smiles. His hand is covered in blood and he’s kneeling over a dead body, but he smiles kindly at Steve. It makes the smaller man’s heart clench, warmth spreading across his chest.

 

“You’re truly something, Steven Rogers.”

 

Steve feels his face go pink. The only other time he’s blushed like that is when Peggy gave him a kiss on the cheek during Christmas last year, a thank-you for delivering her package on time.

 

“I’m a decent human being, is what I am,” he states, suddenly desperate to change the subject. He nods to the three bodies lying about the room. “You’re gonna need help with those, I assume?”

 

Bucky blinks, his mind seeming to come back to the situation at hand. Hurriedly he stands up, assessing the mess around him. He nods.

 

“Yes, most likely. I can carry one at a time and put them on a wheelbarrow to take out to the woods. It’d be easiest to just dump them all in the same place, as far from the house as we can manage.”

 

“What if someone finds them? And on your property?”

 

Bucky laughs. “You forget that everyone in the area is terrified of my land. They seem to think that if they take one step onto it they’ll be damned to hell.”

 

Steve looks at the dead men surrounding them, raising his eyebrows in a mock-shrug. “Can’t imagine why anyone’d ever think that.”

 

That earns him a laugh, too, before they get to moving the bodies downstairs.

 

-

 

A couple of hours later, there’s seven bodies lined up neatly on the front lawn, shoulder to shoulder, and a trail of blood droplets leading from the library to where they lay. Steve had offered to clean it up but Bucky had refused with a wave of his hand, babbling about impositions and being a good host.

 

Steve wasn't going to insist, but he hoped Barnes knew they were a bit past ‘guest/host’ status at this point.

 

The sun’s resting just above the tree line, bright in their eyes as they assess the best way to go about this. Bucky had decided a bit earlier that a wheelbarrow wasn't going to cut it, especially in woods as dense as his were. They came up short as far as other ideas, however.

 

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks up just in time to notice Zeus and one of Zola’s horses grooming each other on the lawn, the other animals scattered about and grazing.

 

“That's it!” He announces suddenly. Bucky, who had been staring at the bodies as if seeking a solution from them, looks up confused.

 

“What? What's it?”

 

Steve gestures wildly at the horses. There’s eight of them, varying in size and color, all with individual saddles and bridles. It's like a gold mine, one that’d been right in front of them the whole time.

 

“We use the horses to carry ‘em into the woods! We don't even hafta use ‘em all, I can ride one with two and you can ride one with two and the other three can go on one of the others.”

 

Bucky’s face lights up, almost too happy at finally finding a logical solution to their dilemma. He starts towards one of the horses, who trots over, looking for treats.

 

“Looks like Zola didn’t treat his horses the way he treated his men, I’ll give that to him.” Bucky muses, running his flesh hand over the mare’s fuzzy nose. She’s a beauty, a paint with more white than brown on her. A patch of dark covers one side of her face, leaving her with one eye blue and the other brown. She huffs in annoyance at Bucky’s apparent lack of food, but doesn’t make a move to get away from him. “I think that sounds like a great plan. Whaddya say, you take your usual grey and I’ll take this pretty pinto here…” he moves her head to the side for a moment to get a look at the brass plate on her bridle, embossed with her name - “Winter. How ironic. Yeah, Winter for me. As for the last one…” He looks around, and his gaze comes upon a chestnut gelding which looks stockier and taller than all the rest, most capable of carrying a large amount of dead weight, literally. “Him. He can take the last three bodies, no problem.”

 

Steve nods his agreement. “Alright. Whaddya wanna do with the rest of ‘em?”

 

Bucky shrugs, scanning over his lawn and the five unchosen horses grazing lazily in the dying sunlight. “They’re alright here, don’t you think? There’s a brook at the bottom of the valley where they can get water, and grass is an unending commodity around here.” He grins, and Steve feels a small pull in his chest. “They can stay as long as they’d like.”

 

-

 

It’s a surprisingly easy task, winning over the horses’ trust enough that they’re okay with being directed by men that aren’t their usual riders. Steve holds their reins so they don’t move while Bucky lifts each corpse up and onto the horse’s croup. Zeus is slightly easier to convince as far as letting Bucky stack bodies on his back, mainly because Steve is there and figures if Steve’s okay with it he should be too.

 

As soon as all the horses are set to go, Steve grips the chestnut’s reins in his right hand and mounts Zeus without a second thought. Bucky stares for a moment, seemingly put off about something.

 

“What?” Steve asks, settling into the saddle. Zeus shifts as well.

 

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s nothing, just surprised at how well you get into the saddle, with your height and all.”

 

Steve raises an eyebrow, scoffing. He’s not some girl, and tells Bucky as much. “I’ve been doing this since before I could read, Barnes, thank you very much.”

 

Bucky shrugs and turns to Winter, and puts his foot in the stirrup. He shifts his weight to his other leg and pushes, swinging it over and landing softly. He makes it look effortless. As soon as he’s got both Zeus’ and Winter’s reins in his hand, he turns back to look at Steve.

 

“Not that I doubted you, Steve. Your strength just never ceases to amaze me.”

 

Just like that, Bucky kicks Winter into motion and Steve almost forgets to grip Zeus’ mane for balance. He almost tumbles off, and would have, if it weren’t for the grip his legs have on Zeus’ midsection.

 

They start off slow, and enter the forest at a trailhead Steve hadn’t noticed before. It’s narrow, barely fitting two horses next to each other at a time, and overgrown, as branches claw at Steve’s clothing and face. He focuses on leading the gelding behind him, leaving the rest of the wayfinding to Bucky, who seems to know exactly where he’s going.

 

As they continue on their way, Steve’s mind wanders. He pictures Bucky, hair loose like it is now, crouched on top of some fast-moving train with a pistol in each hand. In Steve’s mind’s eye, he’s got a dusting of stubble hidden under a handkerchief that’s tied around his nose, chin, and mouth. There’s a hat, too, on top of his head, obscuring the rest of his face, drowning it in shadow. Steve can’t see the steel-gray eyes he knows are there. Behind Bucky, similarly masked figures make their way towards where he waits. The wind howls around them, dust stinging their eyes, but these men pay the weather no heed. They’re here for one thing, and one thing only.

 

Imagination-Bucky grips the side of the train and swings down, sending the heels of his boots into the glass window directly below him. He disappears, and within seconds there’s gunfire and hollering. A baby begins to cry.

 

Steve shakes the images off him, letting them slide out of his mind like rain off an umbrella. He vows to ask Bucky about it when the chance arises, let the right story be told before he can jump to too many conclusions.

 

They stop in a semi-clear area, really just a spot where the trees aren’t as tightly packed. Bucky hops off Winter and begins to push the corpses onto the ground. Once all the ones that had been on Winter are off, he moves to the ones on Zeus’ back and dumps those. Steve stays in his saddle, gripping the chestnut’s reins so the horse doesn’t wander off. Bucky finishes with Zeus’ and the last three land on the forest floor each with an equally solid _thud_.

 

Bucky wipes his hands on his pants and looks up to Steve.

 

“What do you say we head back to the house and try to figure out what exactly it is we’re gonna do from here?”

 

Steve looks into Bucky’s eyes, they way he’s heard boys do with girls when they like ‘em. Sam’s told him about it, so has Clint and Tony. Steve’s never found a girl he likes except Peggy, but she’s too mature for him anyway. Up until this very point, Steve had resigned himself to never finding that perfect gal, probably destined to be like his real father, too miserable to settle down except for a lucky night. Up until now, Steve had never thought he was a person made for love.

 

It tugs at forbidden places in his mind, but he knows it to be true. He looks at James Buchanan Barnes with respect, curiosity, and love. Those cotton-gray eyes look back at him for an answer, and Steve nods, a smile forcing it’s way up from his chest, unbidden. He says something in the affirmative, but his mind is too busy catching up with this newfound realization to pay his own words any thought.

  
They ride back home together, sunset painting the sky pink and orange and red behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna not with the historical notes anymore. It's a lot of extra tab-opening and note-taking in my writing, and with school being a thing now it's just way too tedious to keep up with. I'm still totally open to any and all comments/concerns/questions, though! Hit me with whatever you've got!
> 
> Also, horses are the best. I have two and they are THE BEST. The best.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is purely filler and was hell to write. I hope you enjoy it, for all the blood, sweat, and tears it cost me. Writer's block is a bitch.
> 
> Major major thanks to @DreamingoftheBlackVoid for beta'ing. ♥

_ The Soldier can be described as many things. Small is not one of them. _

  


_ Wilson Fisk has heard differing tales of the Soldier, some say he’s merely a legend concocted by Johann Schmidt and his madness. Others say he’s something otherworldly, a non-human trapped in the vast caverns of the silver mines of Colorado, and others still tell that he once was a man but is no longer, now little more than a shell for Hydra to fill with whatever they please. Stories of the Soldier circulate around the underground crime networks of New York and St. Louis and San Francisco, each city simmering with the thought of a criminal more perfect than crime itself. Voices whisper, mouths chatter hushed over wine and bread, and Wilson Fisk hears it all. He’s heard every story there is to tell about the Soldier. _

  


_ Except, he thinks, the true one. _

  


_ Wilson Fisk stands before the cell with his hands clasped behind his back, assessing the Soldier with an eyebrow up and expectations high. At first, he’s confused. All he sees is a frightened man, sitting in the corner with his ratty brown hair loose and falling like a curtain over his eyes. The cot is impeccably made, and he sits curled up in the furthest corner from where the door is. He’s dressed in little more than loose fabric pants, his feet and chest bare against the biting chill of the January air. The most startling thing, perhaps, is the Soldier’s left arm. It’s on full display to Fisk, as it’s wrapped protectively around the Soldier’s legs. The red star, the gleaming metal, the intricate craftsmanship and ingenuity. Fisk thinks if he listened hard enough, he’d hear the whirring of the gears as they shift with each silent breath. _

  


_ In essence, the Soldier looks unimpressive. Small. Wilson Fisk is about to leave, about to turn his nose up at the rancid stench of human filth and dead mice, when the Soldier’s head twitches almost imperceptibly. _

  


_ The Soldier stares at him. _

  


_ Wilson Fisk looks into the Soldier’s eyes, and is overcome with such nausea that he must look away, must turn around before he can vomit. His stomach roils at the sheer nothingness that encompasses those eyes, like an unending plain of ice. He’s never seen a man so devoid of emotion, so unthinking with just one glance. It terrifies but delights him, and like a child’s hand to a flame he turns back for one more look. _

  


_ He nearly jumps out of his skin. _

  


_ The Soldier is standing, completely still at the iron bars. His face is no longer obstructed, and Fisk finally sees why people talked of him being something unnatural. He looks like a demon, something evil from Greek myth. The Soldier looks no more like a man than a wolf or bear does, due only to his eyes. Fisk sees no humanity in the Soldier, only unending coldness and pain. Scars run all along the left side of his torso and along the connection of shoulder to metal, raised and pink against stark pale skin. His arm, the flesh one, is corded with muscle, more like his metal arm than not. There is no doubt in Wilson Fisk’s mind that this man is a warrior. A soldier, in every sense of the word. Born as a man and recreated to be something else entirely. He has never seen anything like it, not in all his years of being the worst in the business.  _

  


_ Wilson Fisk leaves the cell room visibly shaken, too unsettled to notice the Soldier muttering something upon his departure. _

  


_ At Fisk’s request, Zola begins to use the term ‘Winter Soldier’ in his records and files. That’s no man, Fisk had said, booming voice trembling with foreign uncertainty. That’s a monster of the cold. _

  


\--

  


Bucky and Steve walk down Main Street together, gathering supplies needed for their upcoming journey and making small conversation as they do. Bucky’s talking about a time in his childhood when Becca had a nearly wild filly in her care, and what an event that was.

  


“She named her Tempest, seeing as that creature loved being up on her hind legs more than being on all four. And she was homely, too, all matted black fur and a chopped up mane. Becca saw something in her, though, as she did all the animals she took under her wing. I must’ve been about eight or nine at the time, and I thought she was crazy as a loon.” 

  


Steve’s content to just listen. He’s interested in Bucky, his past, his memories. It seems to be that he doesn’t remember everything he thinks he should, and seeing him light up at the recollection of something from before the fire is a pleasant feeling. 

  


They’re on their way to the first stop on their trip into town. Firstly they need non-perishables, and a lot of them. That’s all they’ll have to eat while they’re traveling. Bucky had promised he knows how to make anything from a can taste good, and Steve trusts him. They can get that from Scott’s General Store, down on the corner of Main Street and Elm. They can also get fabric and mending materials, as well as most of the other items they’ll need for daily upkeep.

  


It’s too late by the time he realizes who’s coming up the road ahead of them.

  


“Well, well, well. If it ain’t the neighborhood meater, all fancied up with no place to go. You outta work, Rogers? Wouldn’t be surprised if the Post Office booted ‘ya.” Gilmore Hodge’s sneering voice echoes up the road. Bucky immediately stops talking, and Steve stops in his tracks. He looks up to see Hodge and two of his buddies walking up to them.

  


The one on Hodge’s right, Steve thinks his name might be Phillips, snickers loudly. He’s the next to speak up. 

  


“Who’s your friend? He another fairy, huh? Looks like the two ‘a you are pretty  _ friendly _ , maybe it’s high time someone taught you queers a lesson.”

  


Steve grits his teeth. This mockery isn’t anything new, in fact, it had been odd that they hadn’t harassed him for almost a week. Next to him, Bucky bristles, and Steve can hear the gears in his arm shifting with added tension.

  


“Now, fellas, you really don’t wanna do this.” It’s all Steve can get out, his throat is clenching up in fearful anticipation of what was to come. 

  


Hodge and his pals are rolling up their sleeves. Steve doesn’t even have to look to know Bucky is in a defensive position, ready to fight.

  


“Oh, but I think we do. A lesson, like Phillips said. You gotta be taught it sometime.”

  


Steve sees Phillips advancing on him, and he puts his fists up in a feeble attempt to look intimidating. He’s done this before, knows what’ll happen. He’ll wake up in the police station sickroom with a black eye and a massive headache, the secretary eyeing him with disdain. That doesn’t stop him from swinging his fist at Phillips first, aiming for his gut. Steve isn’t surprised to find that even though the punch lands, Phillips isn’t affected by it. He barely huffs, let alone stumbles or falls. 

  


Phillips catches him across the jaw, strong and solid, and Steve stumbles backwards. He gets just enough time to glance at Bucky and see him advance towards Hodge, and, balancing on the balls of his feet, deliver the quickest and most brutal left hook Steve’s ever seen in his life. It looks as if it’s executed by a machine, and if Steve didn’t know better he’d think he were crazy for imagining metal under that coat sleeve. Hodge falls and doesn’t get up, and the third member of their trio hollers at Phillips to get outta dodge. Phillips then whirls around, mad as a hornet that he’s been pulled from beating Steve into a pulp, but upon seeing Hodge out cold makes a mad dash for wherever they came from.

  


Steve’s speechless. Never has he seen  _ anyone  _ make Hodge and his gang split so fast. But then again, if he had to pick anyone to do it, he’d choose Bucky. 

  


Who is right in front of him now. When did that happen? Steve realizes his vision is getting blurry, and he can’t really stand up right. Bucky’s hands are on his shoulders and he’s saying something, but Steve’s ears are ringing.

  


He locks eyes with Bucky, and they’re the last thing he sees as he blacks out.

  


\--

  


“ - believe it to be a relatively mild concussion. Other than some rest and no over-exertion, Mr. Rogers shouldn’t require any additional treatment.”

  


Steve decides he’s not going to open his eyes for at least four more hours, awake or not. His head is pounding and it feels like someone’s got it in their hands and is squeezing, harder and harder until it’s just on the verge of bursting open. His temples throb, and he bets if he opens his eyes even the dim light of a candle might be too intense.

  


He’s laid out on a bed, he can tell that much. The quilt is soft under him, the air inside cool but relaxing. He senses people near him, one just catty-corner from his feet and the other radiating warmth next to him. Steve keeps his breathing even so neither the doctor nor Bucky notice that he’s come to, but neither of the men seem to be focused on him at the moment, more so on each other.

  


“A  _ mild concussion _ ? I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, doctor, but Steve passed out. I’d call that a little more than  _ mild _ .”

  


“Well, sir, he should feel lucky that it’s all he’s got, considering his record.”

  


Steve senses that Bucky stiffens next to him. “His record?”

  


“Well, yes, surely you know how often Steven gets into scuffles like this.”

  


Steve can almost  _ feel  _ Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. If he weren’t playing asleep, Steve would groan.

  


“I was not, in fact, aware of that. Do enlighten me.”

  


“I’m afraid I cannot break doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  


There’s a pause where the only thing audible is Steve’s even, deep breathing.

  


Bucky places his gloved (metal) hand on the bed, inches from Steve’s hip, and sighs. “How long until he wakes up?” It comes out as more of a statement. The doctor clears his throat.

  


“I expect - ah, here he is.”

  


Steve hadn’t meant for his eyes to open, but now that they have, he stares up at the ceiling with a smug grin on his lips as if it’d never left. Bucky’s face comes into his peripheral vision to his right and Steve stares up at him instead.

  


“Good Lord, Steve, the hell were you thinking?”

  


Steve closes his eyes once more and grins, a small tendril of pain shooting up the right side of his face as he does so.

  


“Dunno, thought it was pretty clear that  _ wasn’t  _ what I was doing.”

  


Bucky huffs above him, obviously not satisfied with that. Steve hears the doctor stand, his chair scraping backwards on the wood floorboards. His white coat shushes against the material of his pants as he walks to the door.

  


“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have an appointment scheduled for three o’clock. I’m sure you two can handle yourselves. Let me know if anything gets worse, alright? Other than that, I have no recommendations other than to rest and avoid strenuous activity.”

  


Bucky nudges Steve in the hip. “C’mon. We gotta go. Can you walk?”

  


Steve sighs and cracks his eyes open once again. “I suppose so.”

  


Bucky helps him up and Steve drags his feet to his home, a tiny four-room thing with barely enough space for one person, let alone two. Bucky bemoans Steve’s living conditions but Steve argues that it’s just enough for him - a stove, fireplace, bed, a bookshelf, a comfy chair, and some storage for various things. Besides, he reasons despite the migraine blooming behind his eyes, not everyone can live in a four-story sprawling mansion. As soon as he realizes just how beat he is, Steve collapses on the bed and the last thing he sees is Bucky humming some wartune while browsing Steve’s meager book collection.

  


\--

  


_ “You can’t come with me, Steve, it’s too dangerous! There’s too many things that could go wrong!” _

  


_ “You saying I couldn’t handle myself, Barnes? I know damn well what I can and can’t do. You don’t get to make that decision for me.” _

  


_ “No, but I do know how violent these men can get. They won’t be afraid to shoot you, given the opportunity.” _

  


_ “Then I’ll just have to avoid giving them the opportunity. And shoot back. I can hold my own, Bucky, you know this!” _

  


_ “Yes, I do, but I also don’t want to see you dead in a field somewhere just because you felt it necessary to follow me around like a puppy. I need to do this on my own.” _

  


_ Silence hangs around the two like a sheet. Steve’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, chin jutting into the air like the bow of a ship, sturdy and unwavering in its point. He glares at Bucky with daggers for eyes. They’re in the library, their task of putting away the firearms and linens interrupted by a heated debate over whether or not Steve will accompany Bucky on his trip to New York. Neither of them know what the city holds, as Steve’s never been and Bucky doesn’t remember much of it. Bucky had planned to depart the morning after next, after gathering supplies and making preparations. Steve stands steadfast in that he must accompany Bucky, as it’s always safer to travel together rather than alone. Besides, he argues, when they do get there, Steve has plans to see his first proper baseball game. No sensible man would prevent him from that, he says with full conviction. _

  


_ Bucky argues the contrary. He reasons that he can handle himself well enough on his own, that he can get by just fine without Steve tagging along. They both know it’s a blatant lie. Zola’s words ring in Steve’s mind, over and over like a hymn; _

  


_ ‘I know you, James, and you’d rather be alone than understood.’ _

  


_ He’s frustrated at Bucky for his stubbornness. Steve fully understands the implications of traveling on such a journey with him, yet the man seems to see no reason. They both saw Steve shoot just hours ago. He can hold his own. It’s not like he’s a child, he can support himself for a day or a week or more should they get separated. He tells Bucky as much. And in the event of an accident or shootout, Steve reckons, they’ll need someone to care for the other. There’s not always a doctor down the road, sometimes a field dressing is the best you’ll get for miles. Bucky immediately responds to that with, ‘I can dress my own wounds,’ and ‘What if we both get injured? What then?’ _

  


_ Steve tells him that one’s gotta be less hurt than the other, and then reminds him that that wasn’t the problem here, dammit. _

  


\--

  


Steve awakens, again, to the feeling of Bucky sitting next to him. The only sound audible is that of their combined breathing, one rhythm still slow from sleep and the other firm but relaxed. Steve decides to open his eyes right away, peeling his eyelids apart with considerably more effort than he felt was usually necessary.

  


He glances down and sees Bucky sitting beside him, facing him at the foot of his bed. His head is down and Steve would think him asleep, but every few minutes his hand moves and he turns the page of a book. Steve wonders aloud what Bucky’s chosen to read. The older man startles and looks almost sheepish at Steve’s inquiry.

  


“Oh, nothing. I haven’t read it before, is all.”

  


Steve frowns. “That wasn’t what I asked. Whatcha reading?”

  


Bucky gives a small shrug, flipping the book closed and lifting it to show Steve the spine. The thin novel is  _ The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn _ , a story Steve has read and re-read over ten times, probably upwards of fifteen. It’s strange to see that Bucky, the famed James Buchanan Barnes Steve’s heard tales and stories about, hasn’t read a book every shelf in the country holds. A book everyone who’s someone has read. Without thinking, he barks out a laugh that jars his ribs.

  


Bucky scowls at him. “What?” he snaps, eyes narrow. It’s sharp, the subject obviously more sensitive than Steve had guessed.

  


Steve’s mouth snaps shut and he shakes his head. “Never heard’a anyone who hasn’t read Huck Finn, ‘s all.”

  


Bucky’s expression morphs from defensive to sullen. “Didn’t have much time for literature when I was the most wanted criminal in the West.”

  


At that, Steve remains quiet. 

  


He wonders if Bucky’s ever wanted to tell people in town who he is. If Steve were ever, God forbid, in that situation, he’d let at least some close friends know. People he knew he could trust. His mind jumps from one idea to the next, alighting on the notion that Bucky still  _ has  _ close friends and trustworthy connections in Clyde. Who did he go to school with? Do his old friends even know he lives? 

  


Steve can’t imagine the sort of loneliness Bucky must endure every day. To live like that, isolated from everyone except a small blonde fellow who can barely hold his own in a shootout, must be hard. Miserable, even. And added on top of his past? Steve would be in agony. He looks up to his friend, once again engrossed in the book, and feels a pang of sorrow deep in his chest. Barnes is an intimidating and powerful man, but he is just that. A man. And men, as Steve has known for as long as he can remember, are flawed and emotional even while they’re not supposed to be. 

  


It swells from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head, this sense of loss he feels on Bucky’s behalf. To have been so robbed of emotion and choice that every day in recovery afterwards is spent in pain, blazing so white there’s nothing else to be felt beneath it. It lights the fire of rage in Steve’s soul, and he thinks he might understand, to some degree, Bucky’s nearly mad search for redemption.

  


\--

  


_ “I’m going with you to New York, James. I’m not letting you go alone.” _

  


_ “Dammit, Steve! Will you quit with this martyr complex for once? I don’t need accompaniment and I need you to stay alive and safe.” _

  


_ “Me, acting as a martyr? Ha! You do understand I’m an adult capable of making my own decisions?” _

  


_ “Of course I do, Steve, it’s just… I can’t lose you. Not like I did everyone else.” _

  


_ Steve gets the feeling that Bucky isn’t just talking about his mother and sister. He continues on regardless. _

  


_ “And I can’t let you ride in guns blazing on New York City. You need sense and a companion on a journey like this, that’s what I’m offering.” _

  


_ “What I need is to do this alone. This is my fight, Steve, not yours.” _

  


_ “I hate to break this to you, Buck, but it became my fight the moment I shot someone between the eyes on your behalf.” _

  


_ Bucky becomes quiet at that. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. Steve remains still with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for a response. The two are stuck in limbo. _

  


_ “I never meant for you to become so involved in this, Steve. You don’t deserve it.” _

  


_ “Who says you had any say in the matter? I’m the one who made the decision, seeing as you need someone on your side of the field for once.” _

  


_ Those words seem to strike Bucky harder than any Steve has said previously. He stops pacing, his hands pause in their fidgeting. For the first time since they got back to the mansion, Bucky stops and really looks at Steve. It frightens the smaller man for a moment, how Bucky’s eyes glow in the dim lamplight. Everything is quiet for a few seconds. Bucky is unwavering in his intense scrutiny, as if just in his glare he could tell whether or not Steve is telling the truth. _

  


_ It nearly startles Steve when Bucky speaks up again. _

  


_ “I’ve said it before and I’ll no doubt say it again, but you don’t have to come with me.” _

  


_ Steve can’t help the small grin that appears on his lips. He’s won. _

  
_ “I know. When do we start?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter for me, I know. It'll be back to 5500 words in no time, I promise.
> 
> (Also, for that scene where Bucky punches Hodge, I was totally picturing that scene in the new Bourne movie. You know the one? Here, have a link: http://i.imgur.com/HX2M0g1.gif 
> 
> mhm.)
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a bit of gore at the end, but it's not too bad. Nothing that's not in the tags. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! All feedback is very welcome!
> 
> Major thanks to @DreamingoftheBlackVoid for beta-ing!

_ Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. _

 

_ Bucky wakes up in a stone room, a stark contrast to the lavish suite he had fallen asleep in. The room he’d bought in the most expensive hotel he could find is no longer surrounding him, the velvet drapes and Persian rugs traded for cold stone and the metal cot he now finds himself on. Bucky immediately sits up, but upon doing so finds that his hands are shackled to the wall with crude and biting manacles. For a frantic moment he pulls wildly at them, muscles straining under his sleep shirt, but to no avail. Bucky spins so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The chain linking the cuffs on his arm to the wall is long, allowing him simple movement with his hands fastened behind his back. He kicks his heel against the bedframe, causing a loud metallic BANG to reverberate through the cavern. It is followed by threatening silence. _

 

_ Then, a halfhearted laugh. _

 

_ Bucky whirls around. To his right, one of the walls is made up of two-inch thick metal bars running horizontally and vertically, a latticework of iron. _

 

_ “Hello? Is that you, Schmidt? Bastard!” he screams, neck bulging with the effort of forcing the words out of his mouth. A piece of his mahogany hair falls in front of his eyes. He doesn’t notice. _

 

_ He gets a grunt in reply. “Nah, kid. Ain’t him. Jus’ me an’ Morita here, and the fella who only speaks Spanish.” _

 

_ Another voice pipes up. “Dernier speaks French, Dum-Dum. And there’s me and Monty.” _

 

_ Bucky exhales, and a cloud of condensation forms in front of his eyes. He then realizes just how cold he is, and at that moment gooseflesh forms on his arms and legs. He shivers. _

 

_ “How many of you are there?” Bucky asks tentatively, unsure if he really wants the answer. _

 

_ “Just us,” a new voice chimes in, “Monty, Gabe, Dernier, Dum-Dum, and me.” _

 

_ “How long have you been here?” _

 

_ “About a day for me,” the man who must be Monty adds, a posh British accent floating through the cavern. _

 

_ “Dum-Dum’s been here the longest,” Morita adds. “He’s been here, what -” _

 

_ “Three weeks.” Dum-Dum’s voice has a hint of desperation, like he’s repeated those words to himself hundreds upon hundreds of times. _

 

_ “Do you have any idea why?” _

 

_ “Best we can figure,” Dum-Dum began, “is that we all pissed Schmidt off in one way or another. I made him look like a right fool in front of his sweetheart, Morita and Gabe ain’t white fellas, Dernier has a bit too much fun with the TNT, and we still ain’t sure what Monty did.” _

 

_ “Neither am I,” Monty offers, “One minute I was sipping wine in his private suite and laughing about politics, the next I was passed out on this damned cot.” _

 

_ Bucky takes a moment to absorb this information. If Schmidt is locking up people he despises, what had Bucky done? He hadn’t blown anything up, hadn’t said anything out of hand, and was most definitely white. He seems to be in a similar situation to Monty. Bucky is about to open his mouth to ask another question when one comes from Dernier. _

 

_ “Comment t’appelle-tu, étranger?” _

 

_ Bucky smiles a bit. Gabe starts to translate, but Bucky hushes him with a reply. _

 

_ “Je m’appelle James Buchanan Barnes.” _

 

_ The cavern goes silent for a few moments. Morita’s the next to speak up. _

 

_ “You’re fucking with us.” _

 

_ Bucky gives a weak laugh. “Wish I was, pal.” _

 

\--

 

Bucky looks behind him and sees the outline of the town of Clyde on the early morning sun. Steve’s behind him too, gazing ahead, a determined look in his eyes as if the journey they’re on is to California, not a two-day excursion to New York City. Bucky’s eyes flit over the horizon, the buildings getting progressively smaller as Winter continues on beneath him.

 

After Steve had recovered and they’d left his house, it was around one o’clock and they still had shopping to do. They’d purchased everything they needed, from cans of non-perishables to yards of extra fabric for mending clothes and bandaging wounds. They also bought some extra ammunition for their rifles and pistols, and Steve had insisted on bringing at least two books each. In searching around their respective homes, the pair found a tent, a firestarter, some blankets, a couple lanterns, and a pot and utensils. They each brought two pairs of traveling clothes along with a nicer set just in case. Everything they brought fit nicely into their saddlebags and strapped to their third horse’s back. Steve had suggested getting a wagon for the horses to pull from Stark, but Bucky had refused, arguing that if needed they could leave the horses in New York, but couldn’t do so as easily with a wagon.

 

And so they’d set off that morning, an hour before sunrise with the sound of coyotes and the wild surrounding their departure.

 

“What d’you reckon you’ll find in New York? Is there someone in particular you’re looking for?” Steve asks this half an hour after the outline of the town disappears behind the horizon. 

 

Bucky ponders it for a moment. He’s remembering more and more every day, yet can’t recall even one of the names of the men (and women? Were there women, too?) Schmidt was friendly with. Images come and go - a looming, heavy man dressed in all black, a sly smile on the lips of a young, attractive face, oiled hair with white cigar smoke circling around and around and up - the faces go on for forever inside his head. Bucky can’t connect any names to them, not even of the ones Zola had mentioned - Wilson Fisk and Grant Ward were two of the foggiest. He can remember Pierce as clear as a bell, of course, and Schmidt is undoubtedly still in Colorado - miles upon miles from New York. 

 

“I can’t remember names, but I know their faces. I remember the men important to Schmidt, sometimes they came to observe the progress he’d made on me. I think if we look for the men Zola mentioned - Wilson Fisk and Grant Ward - we can find the locations of more Hydra moles from them.”

 

Bucky isn’t facing Steve, as they’re traveling single file, but he can imagine the look on his face as gears turn and pieces come together in his mind. It’s nice to be like this, alone together on horseback, traveling to someplace relatively unknown. Nature encompasses them. Bucky’s seen countless blue jays, robins, and swallows, all chirping happily and flitting in between the trees. Their route is the one folks from Clyde use when they need to travel to a larger city, whether it be Syracuse or Albany or New York City, so the trail is fairly well-kept and much traveled. The horses snort and huff at each other, the sound of their hooves on the dirt a pleasant backdrop to Bucky and Steve’s conversation. Bucky holds the reins in one hand, the other draped over his hip where a pistol rests. 

 

“Whaddya plan on doing when we get there? Gonna look for ‘em straight away, or what?”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “No, I think I’m going to see what’s left of my grandfather’s banks, see if there’s anyone who knew him or my father, or where Pierce is, for that matter. Make connections, forge alliances. Surely someone in that city must remember my family’s legacy, and want to continue it.”

 

It’s obviously not the answer Steve was expecting. He makes a ‘huh’ noise, curious for more. “You really want to take back the bank your grandfather established?”

 

“No, not take back, per se. Just meet the people my father and grandfather knew and reclaim my right to the family name. Become a Barnes again, rather than something other than human. I want my humanity back, Steve, and in getting it I think I can take down Hydra from the inside.”

 

Steve doesn’t respond right away. It’s a few minutes before he speaks up again. “I’ll be here through it, you know that, right? Until you don’t need me I’ll be with you. Even after you don’t need me.”

 

Bucky has to scoff at that.

 

“That won’t happen. I’ll always need you by my side.”

 

-

 

They ride in peaceful silence after that. The sun moves across the sky as the hours pass, the pair watching as a fox darts across the path or a hawk swoops from a treetop to catch its prey. The fauna seem almost overly active, especially around two armed men and three horses.

 

Questions remain unasked. Bucky can sense Steve’s apprehension, especially after the conversation they just had. It’d make anyone curious, to know the lost heir to one of the country’s foremost banking institutions is looking to reclaim his title and seek redemption. It’s quite the headline. 

 

Bucky had never known his father. He grew up in the shadow of a man who left for him a legacy he had yet to fulfill. As a boy, he daydreamed of his father watching him from the clouds and smiling, proud of the studious child his son had become. As he grew older and learned more about the man, he held him less as an unreachable idol and more as a great yet flawed man whom his son had grown up to be like. Bucky had often asked Becca what she remembered of their father, and she could recall his intelligence, eloquence, and charm. He’d been a man of the times, always dressed impeccably with an air of worldly experience.

 

A few months before she died, Winifred told Bucky that he bore a striking resemblance to George as a boy. She’d said she was glad he’d gotten his father’s looks as opposed to her own.

 

Bucky has never even visited a Michael Barnes & Co. bank, having never gotten the chance to while in New York. He knows they have locations in New York City, Washington D.C., Boston, San Francisco, and Saint Louis. He’s aware of some branch of his grandfather’s financial empire across the Atlantic in London, but other than that he knows nothing about it. It’s as hazy to him now as it was when he was thirteen. He hopes to learn more, to meet the men his father left in charge, to acquaint himself with the world his predecessors knew.

 

So, he rides to New York City, to Manhattan and Wall Street, for two reasons - to abolish every last inch of Hydra and to reclaim his honor as a member of the Barnes family.

 

-

 

Night falls before they know it, and Bucky and Steve are in the middle of the wilderness as they find the light of day quickly draining behind the horizon. Together they scout for a clearing, and together they unload their supplies and let the horses graze upon wildflowers and grass. The sky is orange and pink as they roll out their bedrolls and Steve begins to set up the makings of a small fire. However, he only finds small kindling in the immediate area. Bucky notices his dilemma.

 

“I’ll go look for some more firewood,” he offers, grabbing an axe and hunting rifle as he speaks. “Then I’ll heat up one of those cans of beans and make some grits.”

 

Steve nods, handing Bucky a cloth knapsack to hold the wood in. “I’ll go get water while you’re at it. There should be a stream not so far from here, I saw some deer tracks a ways back. I’ll see if those lead me anywhere.”

 

Bucky takes the bag and nods as well, before heading off across the clearing.

 

He enters the woods at the opposite end of the clearing from where they set up camp. The meadow runs narrow and long, north to south. The horses graze at the far end while Bucky enters the woods to their left.

 

The light is disappearing quickly now, the forest already darker than it was when he and Steve stopped to make camp. Bucky walks a fair distance before spotting a fallen tree, its larger limbs perfect for the small fire he plans to build. Immediately he sets the canvas bag on the ground and swings the axe at one of the branches. It only takes a few hits to get it separated from the thick trunk, and then Bucky begins chopping it into more manageable pieces.

 

It isn’t very long until he’s got a good sized pile of logs to use for their fire. He slips each one into the knapsack and hoists it over his shoulder.

 

Bucky turns around and can’t remember which direction he came from.

 

Panic immediately rises in his chest. The moon is waxing, a sliver of light in the night sky and not nearly enough to provide him a clear path back. Bucky takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down and tries to recall what he noticed on his trek through the woods. He remembers seeing a large fir tree as he entered the woods, and he remembers walking up a slight incline.

 

He starts towards the first fir tree he sees.

 

His surroundings gradually get more familiar as he continues along, but then the thought enters his mind that it’s all just his brain tricking him into thinking it’s the right way, and he gets confused again. Bucky keeps walking, though, and eventually comes upon a break in the trees.

 

He breathes a sigh of relief and lets his guard down as he strolls across the grass and wildflowers.

 

Upon second glance, however, he doesn’t see the horses anywhere. Or their camp. Or Steve, for that matter.

 

Boiling with frustration, Bucky lets out a deep, short yell and flings the bag of wood onto the ground. He’s upset with himself for being so careless. He doesn’t know up from down, and whirling his head around to look at the trees around him doesn’t help. Bucky sends a fleeting prayer to God, hoping He’s listening and will send something to direct him back. A breeze to dispel the clouds and bring the stars into view, maybe, or a far-off call in Steve’s voice that’ll lead him back.

 

He waits for a moment. Nothing.

 

Rather than sit and mope about his predicament, Bucky determines that he should call for Steve. There’s too many reasons not to, which explain why he hasn’t done it before, but the pros outweigh the cons at this point, he decides.

 

Just as he’s bringing his free hand (his metal hand is holding the axe) up to cup around his mouth, something grunts and rustles the bushes to his right. Bucky whirls around, thinking he’s found salvation, to see something he didn’t expect.

 

A pair of fuzzy, speckled cougar cubs come galloping out of the brush, tussling with one another in a wrestling match of flying claws and high pitched growls.

 

Bucky gapes as they roll to a stop at his feet. One of them gains its footing and, with a final swipe at its sibling, looks up and  _ chirps  _ at Bucky. He has to stifle a laugh at the sound;it’s as if a bird were in front of him, rather than a baby cougar.

 

And then his brain catches up. Baby animals mean mother animals, who have a tendency to be protective over their young.

 

With a  _ shush  _ of the grass to his left, Bucky turns and looks up just in time to hear a vicious snarl and see razor-sharp claws leaping at his chest.

 

-

 

Steve sits alone in the dying light of the lantern he lit, wrapped in a wool blanket as he waits for Bucky’s return. He knew something must be up, as it isn’t usually too hard to find firewood in the  _ woods _ . As the sunlight faded and the air grew cooler, Steve lit the lantern with their fire starter and did his best to keep the bugs off him.

 

He wasn’t succeeding very well.

 

He thinks it must be an hour before he hears anything, and the sound makes him bolt upright, rifle already in his hand.

 

It’s a scream, feral and wild, but definitely human. Most certainly male. Then, following that, the sound of a fight, screaming and wailing echoing through the night. It drives nails through Steve’s ears, and he thinks the racket so loud as to strike fear through the grace of God’s angels. It spikes through the peaceful night air with the promise of death, and Steve is terrified.

 

So he runs.

 

Rifle in one hand, lantern in the other, Steve runs toward the noise. It’s west of their camp, across the meadow and away from the trail they’d been traveling on. It feels as though he runs for an eternity, but just as he thinks his lungs are about to collapse he finds himself in another, smaller meadow.

 

In the dim light he sees two shadowy figures, one with a glinting metal limb, but aside from that it’s difficult to determine which is the animal. Both man and beast fight dirty, with claws and metal fingernails and teeth and inhuman reflexes. Steve sees an axe on the ground near the fight, forgotten in the ambush. From the trees Steve watches for a moment as both parties are evenly matched.

 

Then he remembers himself and shakes his head, looks away for a moment to get his bearings when a shot rings out in the dark, tearing through tawny fur and causing the lion to collapse on top of her prey. Bucky, his panting audible from where Steve stands shocked, wriggles his way out from under her limp body to catch his breath. It’s at this point that Steve notices the three long, red gashes over Bucky’s pectoral, white cotton soaked through with crimson blood. 

 

His feet are moving before his brain processes the fact that he wasn’t the one to shoot the cougar.

 

“Bucky? Bucky! Oh, God, holy hell, Barnes. You’re losing blood. We need to get you back to the camp - “ Bucky’s metal hand, fingers bloody and glistening in the candlelight, grips his wrist. He’s looking at Steve very intently.

 

“Steve, listen to me. Did you fire that shot?”

 

Steve couldn’t believe him. Talk about takin’ a fuckin’ gift horse for granted. “I really don’t see how that applies, Barnes, now let’s  _ go  _ -”

 

“No. Steve. Who fired that shot? If it wasn’t you, that means someone’s been trailing us.” Bucky says determinedly, surprisingly alert and coherent for having three long, bleeding gouges in his chest. Steve knows full well that if he looked down he’d see sliced up muscle and skin, and he doesn’t want to think about it right now, thank you very much. But Bucky’s words are true. If someone were trailing them, they wouldn’t want Bucky dead. They’d want him alive so the pair could lead them to New York and possibly the Hydra bases they plan to infiltrate.

 

The two sit in silence, Bucky’s breathing only slightly labored, listening. Steve’s hand rests absentmindedly on Bucky’s other shoulder, on the seam between metal and flesh.

 

“Come out, you bastard!” Bucky taunts, voice full of humorless mirth.

 

Smooth as Chinese silk, a voice echoes from behind them.

 

“Now, boys, that’s no way to talk to a lady.”

 

Their heads spin around (Bucky wincing at the pull on his shoulder), and before them stands none other than the last person Steve expected, holding a long-barrel hunting rifle.

 

“Natasha?” He asks, quite redundantly.

 

Bucky’s eyes grow wide. He mutters something in a foreign language, before twisting his body so he’s further away from the redhead. A whisper escapes his lips, almost too quiet for Steve to catch, but he does.

  
“ _ The Widow _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another relatively short chapter. Next thing you know, Donald Trump will run for the presidency! Hahaha jokes.
> 
> Anyway, I would like to reiterate how hard it is to write 1890's fiction because the Industrial Revolution means some things have been invented and some things have not, and I have to look up every little object I'm unsure about. Good times!
> 
> This chapter, on another note, was inspired by "The Revenant". It's my favorite book, though I haven't seen the movie (yet). Did you know? "Revenant" is a word derived from the French "revenir", or "to return", and it means "a person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead". I wanted to name this work "The Revenant" but could not for obvious reasons.
> 
> Comments, kudos, and all kinds of love are always accepted and appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. It's me, returned from the icy hell that is dinners with extended family and completing final exams. Back with MY LONGEST UPDATE EVER. WOO. Hopefully this keeps you satisfied until I can get to updating next.
> 
> Happy New Year, and as always, thanks to @DreamingOfTheBlackVoid for beta-ing.
> 
> Love you all!

_Natalia had known she was different from her siblings, cousins, and even parents the moment she’d been enrolled in Mademoiselle’s ballet class. The lessons were strenuous and taxing on such young girls, but Natalia Romanov excelled in every one. It was apparent from the beginning that she was special, so the headmaster of the school wrote a letter to Natalia’s parents, which they then read aloud to her._

 

_“Monsieur and Madame Romanov;_

 

_I have written this letter in hopes of persuading you to pursue young Natalia’s career in the formidable art of ballet. She is an exceptional student, talented beyond her years, and the staff here at Vaganova have taken an interest in her continued success. You may recall our spring performance of Petipa’s ‘The Pharaoh's Daughter’, in which Natalia showcased her rather incredible skills and aptitude for the art. For a girl of only seven, Natalia is already referred to by some as a prodigy._

 

_Of course, I and the entire executive committee at Vaganova hope to see Natalia enroll in classes which are more suited to her skill level. I have enclosed with this letter a pamphlet from an esteemed American school, in which the training is rigorous and exceptionally rewarding. It was opened just a few years ago by my close friend Vasily Kaprov, and I myself have personally spoken to him about your daughter. He is willing to send a representative to Saint Petersburg at the end of the semester to collect Natalia and bring her to this school. All expenses paid, of course. It is your choice, but I urge you to send your daughter to America to expand upon her brilliance at the art of ballet._

 

_I am willing to provide a letter of recommendation given that you choose to submit an application to this school._

 

_Thank you for your enduring support and I look forward to working with you on Natalia’s bright future._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Sir Ivan Petrovitch”_

 

_The decision was made almost immediately. Natalia left that January for America. She was accompanied by a man with eyes so kind she knew he couldn’t be trusted, so she tried to spend as much time as possible away from him on the journey. The ship they took across the Atlantic was small but luxurious, a private seafaring craft with velvet curtains and Egyptian bedsheets. Natalia wondered if this was how the Academy in America would be, warm woods and fabrics a contrast to the stone hallways she knew at home._

 

_She was wrong._

 

-

 

“Why’d you come to Clyde, of all places? And where are you from, really?”

 

Steve is more curious than anything. He’s known Natasha for years, five at the least, yet somehow she’d lived this double life right under his nose. He is genuinely fascinated by it. All the stories he’s read have made it seem so easy to spot, the concept of someone leading a double life. It must be much harder, he thinks, in real life, what with all the stories people like him read. Steve watches her closely, now realizing how blind he must have been to miss the precision and deliberation in her movements. It amazes him.

 

Bucky, on the other hand, is still extremely apprehensive. He sits against a tree in their camp, where Natasha had laid him as she dressed his wound and given him some cheese she’d brought along.  He’s eating it grudgingly, and watches her as she converses with Steve.

 

Steve decides that their history seems to be something Bucky isn’t ready to forgive yet. He watches Bucky, too, the man’s grimy face wrenched up in a frown as he tugs at the cheddar with his teeth. The fire crackles between him and Natasha, the only sounds audible in the night air being the crackle of wood and the _sush_ of Natasha’s skirts. Steve thinks back on that day he and Bucky had gone to Mass and had bumped into Natasha. Bucky hadn’t recognized her, save for a tingling of memory that hadn’t led to anything. Steve wonders if the effects of whatever Zola had done to him are still wearing off, still present. That would explain why he didn’t recognize her at that time but did now. But Natasha hadn’t said anything. She’d barely acknowledged Barnes, let alone made known her connection to him. Was she afraid of him? Is she still? Were they allies? Enemies? Were they two weapons created for the same purpose, one escaping early and the other nearly too late?

 

Steve feels in over his head. Natasha keeps talking.

 

“I was born and raised in Russia. Moved to the States when I was a young girl, with a man I didn’t know to a school they claimed to be the best in the world. That wasn’t true. There they tried to teach me to fight, to seduce men and kill them, to be their toy. I ran away, but not before their training took hold. I ran away the first chance I got.  I was eighteen when I arrived in the dead of night to Clyde.”

 

Steve frowns, grip on the rifle at his side tightening. He’s not letting anything get past him, not any longer.

 

“You told the town that you were Wanda and Pietro Maximoff’s cousin, come to stay with them after your parents died. Is any of that true? If it ain’t, how’d you manage to get them to let you into their home?”

 

Natasha nods. “It’s not true I am their cousin, or that I moved there because of my parents’ passing. Their father was an ex-employee under Kaprov still in hiding, and sent a scout to collect me once I had escaped. He, as a matter of fact, was the one who orchestrated my escape. He’d heard of me and wanted to get me out. Kaprov never suspected Maximoff would be the one hiding me. I do believe Pierce killed Kaprov after that, for being such a failure that his only success slipped through his fingers.”

 

“How long were you in the Red Room?” Steve asks, unsure if Natasha will reply truthfully.

 

A wry smile causes her red-painted lips to twist disdainfully. “I was there for ten years, from age seven to seventeen.”

 

Before Steve can reply, a grunt sounds from where Bucky is seated. Steve whirls to see him tearing at the bandages, hunk of cheese left discarded on the ground. Steve gives a small shout and tries to dive to stop him, but Bucky loosens the bloody fabric enough to reveal the skin underneath.

 

Three pale, jagged scars across his right pectoral, exactly where there should have been shredded skin and muscle.

 

Bucky’s panting, a sheen of sweat visible on his hairline. Steve reaches out to rip the bandages the rest of the way off and they come unfurling in his hands. He stares openly at the scars.

 

“The serum,” Bucky coughs, “that Zola filled me with to make me less destructible means I have advanced cell regeneration. Doesn’t mean healing doesn’t hurt like a sonuvabitch.”

 

Steve nods, wrapping the bloodied cloth in his hands to wash later. “Still leaves scarring?”

 

Bucky nods. “Oh yeah.” He chuckles lightly. “You should see my fuckin’ shoulder.”

 

Natasha retrieves the cheese from where it rolled a few feet away from Bucky. “As fascinating as that is, boys, we should get some rest. Long way to the city tomorrow.”

 

Steve and Bucky silently agree and, parting from each other, make their way to their separate bedrolls.

 

Steve stays awake for as long as he can and somehow, Natasha’s still up when he falls asleep.

 

-

 

The next morning, Steve wakes with the rising sun. It’s unseasonably cold and Natasha is already up, if she ever even went to sleep. Bucky is rolling up his bedroll and the horses are all tied to trees in the immediate area. Steve, sitting up and throwing the wool blanket off his shoulders,  wonders if Bucky and Natasha forgot about him, or if they decided to let him sleep in. He doesn’t know which he’d prefer.

 

They get the horses loaded up quickly, seeing as they didn’t have that much out anyway. Bucky turns to Natasha suddenly, with shoulders broad and threatening,  and Steve’s breath hitches, seeing that defensive posture on his friend. It’s equal parts intimidating and worrying.

 

“Do you plan on following us to the city? What’s your motive here? I can’t have you traveling with us if you can’t be trusted.”

 

Natasha’s expression morphs from her usual arched-brow, slack-jawed cockiness to a tight, serious glare. “Barnes, you forget that you weren’t the only one they experimented on. I want Hydra dead or captured just as much as you do.”

 

Bucky raises a brow at that, an imitation of Natasha. “They experimented on you? In what way?”

 

Steve balks at Bucky’s blunt words. He himself hasn’t been able to ask Bucky about what he went through and he’s known him for longer. When he thinks about it, though, he figures the subject is less touchy between those who have been through it.

 

Natasha smiles, a secret trapped between her teeth. “That, my friend, is a story for another day.”

 

She turns to her horse and pulls herself up gracefully, her position a delicate sidesaddle balance on her black-and-white mare. Steve takes a moment to just look at the mystery of her, the pure enigma that is Natasha Romanoff, before turning to Zeus and getting on. Bucky does the same, taking up the lead.

 

It’s a caravan of four horses, three riders, and enough secrets to last a lifetime.

 

-

 

They see the outline of the beginnings of the buildings of New York City as they come over a large, almost mountain-like hill. The city starts as farms and schoolhouses, then becomes more packed together with less room for the people living there, before it becomes brick buildings taller than Steve’s ever seen with bridges and architecture like nowhere else on earth. They see the ocean, too, of course, from where they stand, and Steve can see the smoke from liners arriving from across the globe. But just as the city emanates newness and vitality, it also bleeds poverty and anguish, a feeling so profound Steve can nearly taste it on his tongue. This city is one of life and death, joy and sorrow, of humanity and destruction.

 

He looks over at Bucky and, upon seeing the look in his eyes, knows this is where his friend has longed to be ever since he left so many years ago. Here, he can reclaim his birthright, avenge his own suffering, and become the man he was destined to be. Steve almost feels unimportant, standing next to such power.

 

His doubts flit away when Bucky looks over at him and the expression in his eyes doesn’t change.

 

The trio make their way down the hillside, a gentle slope through which forest gives way to well-used farmland, which then gives way to commerciality. It’s a vision of modernity. Steve stares openly, the buildings taller than anything in Clyde, save the Barnes Estate. But where Bucky’s home is imposing and cold, these buildings radiate warmth. Their bricks beckon Steve inside, the hand-painted storefront signs swing their arms wide in welcome.

 

And then Steve sees the beggars. Outside the radiant storefronts sit men in rags with tin cups, women with an infant at their breast and a toddler at her hip blink from the shadows in alleyways, and Steve shies away from them. In Clyde, at home, there are no beggars. There is poverty, sure, everyone is either in a bad way or has gone through one. But everyone helps the other. Steve shies away, he realizes, at the indifference of the other pedestrians on the street. At the man who accidentally kicks the small cup of a beggar and pays no mind.

 

Humanity, but destruction. Steve’s mind plays this on a loop, as he rides through the city of warmth but ultimate coldness.

 

They ride until they come across some stables where they can put up the horses. Luckily, it’s close to the center of the city, so if need be they can either walk or take a hansom cab to their destination. Steve is mildly surprised to see STARK emblazoned across the top of the stables. It can’t be a coincidence, but Steve had no idea Tony had more than one branch of his company.

 

There’s a hotel next to the stables where Natasha makes and pays for a reservation for a week, three rooms on the same tab. Steve and Bucky take their belongings to their rooms, which happen to be next to one another. The hotel is luxurious, crimson red carpeting with green velvet drapes and pristine oil lamps. Bucky had settled for nothing less than the best for himself and his companions. Steve almost feels obligated to do something in return.

 

He drops his things (there are not many of them, as Bucky took most of the items they brought along) on the bed and immediately surveys his room. The wood of the floor and of the doors match, with burgundy wallpaper and bedding. There are two windows, each in the same wall, and upon closer inspection Steve sees that his view encompasses the building across the street and the street below. He’s three stories up - higher than he’s ever been, even in the Barnes household.

 

As he continues to survey his living space, he sees a door that seems to lead to Bucky’s room. Tentatively he pads over to the door and knocks twice, and then waits all of three seconds before the door swings inward. Bucky stands before him, jacket and waistcoat gone, the glimmering silver of his metal arm just visible under his white shirt. Steve raises an eyebrow at Bucky’s state of undress, to which his friend replies with a glance at his pocketwatch.

 

“It’s nearing five o’clock. I figured I might freshen up before we make any decisions concerning dinner.”

 

Steve nods, completely uninterested in dinner plans. He fixes Bucky with a searching stare.

 

“Is this alright with you?”

 

Bucky furrows his brow, not following. Steve sighs.

 

“Returning to the city. Is it what you expected? More importantly, how do you plan on making yourself known to whoever runs your father’s bank? I can’t imagine just waltzing in there will work.”

 

Bucky drops his head in mock defeat and steps aside to allow Steve entrance. The smaller man takes up residence on a plush sitting chair, ankle resting on his knee, as he regards Bucky.

 

The brunet stands in front of a mirror as he speaks, fiddling with his hair and collar and shirt cuffs. “There are things about my father only his family and those closest to him know, even me, regardless of the fact that he died while I was an infant. My mother always told me I looked like him in youth, so I’m willing to gamble that I look like him in adulthood. If those things can’t at least get me to the bank’s executive offices, I’m sure the references I have in New York’s most powerful - Rockefeller, Morgan, you know - will give me a leg up. They haven’t seen me since I was eighteen, but with the right words I can convince them that who I am is who I was.”

 

Steve nods along, chin resting thoughtfully in his right hand.

 

“And after that? Once you do get into the executive offices and meet with the bank’s president. I’m sure connections to Hydra aren’t going to pop up as soon as you walk in. And besides, meddling in affairs that people could claim aren’t technically yours could be grounds for a lawsuit. Doesn’t matter your birthright, some people will overlook anything to keep their secrets. You should get a lawyer, there’s gotta be plenty in this city.”

 

Bucky hums in agreement. He seems to be thinking this over. As he sorts his hair into a manageable part, tidying it up from a day of riding, he replies.

 

“I think if I ask around about it tonight and tomorrow, I can get information on lawyers willing to represent unusual cases. There must be someone out there with the guts to defend me in a court of law.”

 

 _And if there’s not,_ Steve thinks as he watches Bucky, _I’ll do it in a heartbeat, legal education be damned._

 

-

 

They receive a dinner recommendation from the girl at the front desk for a place down the road, an easy walk. It’s a spacious, soothing space, with smoke curling towards the paneled ceiling and booths for private conversation. The waiter seats Natasha and Bucky next to one another, with Steve on the opposite side. It’s a harmless assumption, that Bucky and Natasha are an item, but it makes a small spark of jealousy flare in his chest regardless.

 

He hides his blush behind his menu, scanning for a food he’s not allergic to. He settles for cream of mushroom soup, a chef’s special.

 

The meal goes by uneventfully, for which Steve is grateful. Natasha ordered a Caprese salad while Bucky ordered spaghetti, though he doesn't touch the meatballs. It’s all very decadent, and Steve feels fuller than he has in a long time.

 

Near the end, when they have finished and are conversing about menial things and waiting for the bill, Bucky excuses himself to use the restroom. Steve and Natasha chat for the next ten minutes, about whatever comes to their minds, until Bucky returns.

 

He drops a business card between Steve’s clasped hands. He looks down and sees elegant, looping script embossed onto thick paper.

 

_NELSON & MURDOCK _

_ATTORNEYS AT LAW_

_HELL’S KITCHEN, NEW YORK CITY_

 

“I think I found a lawyer.” Bucky says, voice full of cocksure pride.

 

Steve looks up to see a hopeful smile. He returns it.

 

-

 

The next day, after they’ve returned to the hotel and gotten a good night’s sleep, the trio meet up in a small tavern across from their hotel for breakfast. Bucky tells Natasha and Steve that he’s going to head for the Barnes offices after he’s finished, and that they are welcome to join him, but that someone should stop by Nelson & Murdock to determine their legitimacy. In the end, they decide that Natasha can pose as Bucky’s secretary and Steve can go to the law offices as an ‘associate’. Breakfast goes by quickly after they’ve sorted that out.

 

Bucky and Natasha depart in a cab going towards Wall Street as Steve departs in one going for Hell’s Kitchen. He’s a bit nervous, seeing as the area is notorious for being riddled with gang violence and crime. He plans on keeping his cap pulled low over his head and his blue eyes steely, the business card tucked safe in his pocket as he darts from the cab to the law offices. He sighs shakily as he tells the driver his destination.

 

Once he’s arrived and paid the fare, Steve exits the cab and sticks to the plan. The air reeks of factory and cigar smoke, with the putrid scent of oily seawater more present here than it had been further inland. Steve ducks his head down, afraid to make eye contact with anyone of the wrong sort. He reaches the door of the offices within fifteen steps.

 

Nelson & Murdock are located on the third floor, according to the tenet list nailed up inside the entrance. Steve ascends the stairs hurriedly, each board seeming to groan under the stress of his weight.

 

The building isn’t in disrepair, but it’s obvious that this part of town is not the place for luxury. There are cracks in the plaster and the wallpaper is peeling in some places, and Steve thinks he spots at least two suspicious looking stains in each of the rugs on the landings. He bears it, though, because supposedly these lawyers are respected enough and gutsy enough to take a case like Bucky’s. At least, that’s what he’d been told.

 

Steve reaches the door and knocks three times in rapid succession. A feminine voice from within calls out a _Come in!_ and Steve opens the door.

 

The room is swathed in yellow light, from the lamps mounted on the walls and the green banker’s lamp on the desk. The receptionist, a willowy blond woman in a periwinkle dress, has one hand occupied by a cigarette and the other by a fountain pen. She smiles at him warmly.

 

“Hello, darling. Welcome to Nelson & Murdock Law Offices. There something we can do for you today?”

 

Steve nods, reaching into his coat for the business card. “Yes, I’m here to discuss an associate of mine that I believe only Nelson and Murdock can defend.” He shows her the card. “I received this with a stellar recommendation of their work.”

 

The woman nods, extinguishing the cigarette and replacing the pen in its holder as she stands up. “If you’ll follow me, they’ll see you in this meeting room here -”

 

She pushes open a door to reveal a room with a single table, two chairs on one side and one on the other, with another green banker’s lamp in the middle. Steve removes his cap and coat and takes his seat, and the woman smiles gently at him.

 

“They’ll be right in, honey. Sit tight.”

 

Steve nods and drapes his coat over the arm of the chair as the door clicks shut. He grips his hat tightly, sitting stick-straight in the chair, waiting. Absently he wonders if this is even legitimate, if whatever source Bucky received the card from was reliable.  It’s not an unreasonable concern, not in a city like this.

 

The door opens before he can conjure up any more doubts.

 

A heavier blond man enters first, clean shaven with a notebook and pen in his hands. He holds the door for his partner, who walks in confidently and nods a thank you to the shorter man. This one, the taller of the two, is dark-haired and Steve tries to catch his gaze, but can’t. Something seems off about him, but Steve can’t place it. The two sit down across from Steve, almost as if in sync, and the blond extends his hand.

 

“I’m Foggy Nelson, and this is Matt Murdock. You are?”

 

Steve drops his cap on the table and takes Foggy’s hand. “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

 

Steve looks over to Murdock, who stares off at the wall to Steve’s right. Steve furrows his brows as Murdock smiles and nods, eyes not moving.

 

“The pleasure’s ours, Mr. Rogers. Now-” he shifts in his seat, leaning forward with his hands clasped together on the table “-what brought you here today?”

 

Steve clears his throat. “You’ve heard of James Buchanan Barnes, I presume?”

 

\--

 

Wilson Fisk had heard stories of the Barnes son, and never given them much thought. What was it to him that George Barnes’ son was likely dead in the middle of the New York woods? Those who gossiped about the family had their theories, but Wilson overlooked conspiracy and imaginings for logic.

 

The Barnes boy had killed himself after witnessing the death of his mother and sister. No one bothered to look, and no one remained in contact with the Barnes Estate, so it was the most reasonable possibility. Wilson Fisk put it out of his mind within a month of the incident.

 

Fisk had never wavered in his opinion until Samuel Edwards sent a message saying, quite bluntly, that he had found the legitimate son of George Barnes, alive and well, 33 years old and ready to reclaim his place on his father’s throne. Edwards had, apparently, asked a few questions only someone in the family would know, and the man answered them perfectly. It was James, Edwards wrote. Without a doubt. _I’d seen him once or twice as a small boy, with his mother and sister, and this is that young child._ Wilson wasn’t sure what this had to do with him until he read further down the letter.

 

_Of course, I offered him a position as my right hand, a co-president if you will. The boy is the rightful heir to the empire, after all. James accepted right away. He voiced his wish to get to know the bank’s main benefactors, and when I mentioned your name he perked right up. Sounded like he admires you, Fisk. Wherever he’s been, there must have been a paper. Anyhow, I hope it’s alright that I gave him your address. James should be over within the week. Possibly day, even, with how excited he seemed. He might even bring the gorgeous secretary who accompanied him to my office. Have your doorman look out for a tall, broad-shouldered man with a smart set to his jaw. You’ll know him when you see him. He’s hard to miss, like his father was._

 

Wilson put the letter on his desk and began to make preparations. This was no minor event, the grand return of James Buchanan Barnes.

 

-

 

The following day, Wilson Fisk meets James as soon as the man walks in. He sticks his right hand out for the man to shake, and James takes it in a firm grip. Wilson doesn’t know what to say, for once, but James beats him to it. There’s a strange, almost wild look in his eye. He’s smiling, though.

 

“I must say, Mr. Fisk, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard much about your work. Advocating to clean up the city, yes? Clear out crime and poverty. All very admirable.”

 

Fisk shrugs. He releases his grip on James’ hand, who immediately puts it in his pocket. “Well, yes. I must do what I can, and sometimes to rebuild something you must first tear it down. Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Without missing a beat, James nods. “Yes, of course. Might we move this meeting to somewhere more -” he spares a glance towards the maid dusting a shelf  to his left “- private?”

 

Fisk leads James to a sitting room with a view of the city. James sits across from him, legs crossed and hands clasped in his lap. Fisk notices he wears a glove on his left hand. Not unusual, not at all, and Wilson pays it no mind.

 

To begin, Wilson asks what James would like to know. James then talks about how he’d gone through difficult times and had only recently returned to New York. Wilson tries to press the issue, but James refuses to elaborate.

 

If it were anyone else, he’d force them to say it. Wilson Fisk is not known for being _nice_ . This is an exception. For some reason, James intimidates him. He’s surrounded by such mystery that it’s nearly impossible _not_ to be a little bit scared. But Wilson Fisk doesn’t get scared, he can’t afford fear in the business he’s in. Power simply recognizes power.

 

They begin to discuss the bank. James asks of its assets, his mouth forming the word oddly. Fisk mentions the connections with Rockefeller’s oil, Vanderbilt’s rail lines, and, most recently, Carnegie’s steel. James nods along, asking questions here and there, and Wilson begins to like him. He’s imposing in a quiet way, obviously very fit physically, but he also possesses an intellect which is unmatched by anyone Fisk knows of the same age. He knows he must ask about it.

 

“Where did you study, James? It must have been Harvard, or Georgetown, or your father’s alma mater, Princeton. I simply must know, as your intelligence is fascinating.”

 

James smiles wryly. “I am, actually, entirely self-taught. What I know I learned from my sister or from my father’s collection of books.”

 

Fisk can’t believe it. This is astounding, this man. He’s quiet for a moment, regarding the man in front of him, and decides to reveal another piece of information.

 

“Have you heard of the organization called Hydra?”

 

James’ face remains neutral, but he nods. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

 

“Then you must know the valiant effort we are making to bring about a new world order. Samuel Edwards and I run the New York division, and if you’re genuine in your interest in this company, you must understand that Hydra comes with it.”

 

James blinks once, then nods again. “Of course. I fully understand.”

 

Wilson’s eyebrows bounce up. “You’re willing to become the new face of Hydra leadership?”

 

The younger man’s lips twitch up in a small smile. He seems almost pleased, and it makes Fisk admire him more.

 

“More than willing. The company comes with Hydra, correct? This is my rightful place, at the head of the empire my predecessors built.”

 

Fisk nods, confident he has made a new, extremely powerful ally.

 

James’ eyes flit up to meet his. “Might I see the books you’ve kept on the bank’s financial involvement with Hydra?”

 

Wilson Fisk tells him _of course_ and exits the room, heading for the loose panel behind the dictionaries in his office.

 

-

 

Upon his return, Wilson Fisk sees James standing with something in his hands. The glove is in his pocket, but his left hand is hidden by his body. The late afternoon sun glints off the object, which Fisk recognizes as a Japanese warrior’s blade he’d bought at an auction ten years ago. It had been mounted on the mantel above the fireplace.

 

The atmosphere in the room has gone from amiable to cold, so cold. James’ back defies any warmth, the way he holds his shoulders screams frozen indifference. Or rage. One of the two, Fisk can’t make it out.

 

He sets the book on the coffee table and steps towards James, stopping a few yards behind him. The man seems to be observing the sharpness of the blade, as well as the foreign words etched near the hilt.

 

“This is a beautifully crafted katana. Very artistic. Most of the swords Japan produces now are for the military, but this is a modern beauty made in the style of the old oriental samurai. It’s real, but I doubt you can read the inscription here. It reads, _‘For the soldier of Winter’_.”

 

Something sparks in the back of Wilson Fisk’s mind. It can’t be, he assures himself. The Soldier was lost to the wilds of the West, never to be seen again by civilized eyes. Gone rogue, a savage of the most feral variety. Never to be approached or contacted.

 

With his left hand, James raises the sword up like a statue of a revered general. Imposing and grand. Fisk’s heart nearly stops.

 

_The Winter Soldier_

 

“Quite fitting, wouldn’t you think?”

 

With the controlled grace of a predator, James turns around to face Fisk. He lowers the sword to his side, a deceptively careless move. Fisk knows better than to assume it a drop of defenses. James stares at him, and Fisk recognizes the look in his eyes now. He remembers the feeling he got when he saw it the first time. His stomach roils, just as it did then.

 

Now, however, is different. Not only is Fisk trapped in a room with the deadliest man to roam the West, but also with James Barnes, son of George and grandson of Michael, still here to reclaim his birthright. The Winter Soldier and James Barnes are one in the same, and that could mean nothing less than the destruction of everything Fisk has worked for. James could demolish Hydra’s presence in New York with a flick of his wrist. Fisk curses Schmidt for choosing the Barnes heir, of all people. James is twice as deadly as any man on earth and he _knows it_. This makes him a force unlike any other.

 

“I remember you. You visited my cell, when I was being kept.” James’ voice is a deep vibrato, nearly a growl. Fisk can’t move, paralyzed with fear. He admits it to himself. He is afraid, because last time he saw James Barnes, there were iron bars separating them, and he still remembers that like it was yesterday. “I saw you flinch at my mere presence. I controlled you, Wilson Fisk, just as I do now. I always have.”

 

Fisk knows he’s got to keep his head. “You don’t control a damn thing.”

 

James laughs, a humorless thing that engulfs the room like smoke. He draws the sword up, holding it like he had been before. “I control more than you’d like to admit. I’m not the only one who wants to see Hydra in pieces. And I will, Fisk, see it destroyed, but I need your assistance on something small.”

 

“Come again?”

 

Barnes’ lips quirk up in a grin. “As I said, it’s something small. I just need to know the whereabouts of one man.”

 

“And what makes you think I’ll do anything to help you?”

 

James laughs again, but this time as if Fisk has said something funny. “The look on your face, for one thing. Do you think me stupid? I’ve read the reports. I’ve heard about how you bashed a man’s head in with a carriage door in the dead of night. I heard about how you stabbed a disloyal member of your inner circle with an iron rod and dumped him in the sewers for the rats. I know you’re ruthless, Wilson Fisk. I know you’re used to being feared. You have every right to be of this mindset. Leader of the largest crime network in one of the largest cities in the world. Does a lot for a man’s ego, I’d assume. You murder men at the drop of a finger and get little more than a vague few sentences in a sheriff's report, followed by the words ‘ _low priority_ ’. How deep in your pocket must the authorities be then, Fisk? How much have you paid them?”

 

James is prowling now, circling his prey with a growl in his words and bloodlust in his eyes. Fisk can’t help but feel validated at his words, at the power James is putting in his position. He knows himself to be convoluted for feeling pleasure at the Winter Soldier listing his crimes.

 

“Your status, Fisk, is why it’s obvious that you’re intimidated by me. If you weren’t, you’d have me dead on the ground with my neck snapped by now. If I was simply James Barnes and I threatened you with this katana, you’d kill me before I got two words out. But you’re a smart man, Fisk, and you know who I am. You know what I’m capable of. Which is why you’ll never be able to kill me, because you could very well die trying. And that is just not acceptable.”

 

Fisk hates that the man is right. He stares at James, seeing a vengeful warrior returned to make right his wrongs. Wrongs that Fisk has had a hand in. It’s true what he’s saying. But…

 

“All of that doesn’t mean I have to help you, just that I won’t kill you for the time being.”

 

James laughs again. “I haven’t gotten to my second reason, Fisk. Because if you don’t assist me with this, the Black Widow will take that book -” he gestures to the leatherbound notebook Fisk had brought in earlier “- and distribute the pages to your most hated rival gangs. The Irishmen first, I would think?”

 

It’s Fisk’s turn to laugh. “The Black Widow! She doesn’t exist. And even if she did, she’s nowhere to be found. There’s no way she could get her hands on thi-”

 

He reaches down to find the coffee table empty of any book he may have put there. Alarmed, he looks up to James, who is smiling at something over Fisk’s shoulder. He whirls around.

 

A woman with fire-red hair tied up in an elaborate bun is flipping through the pages. “I must say, Fisk, I bet the Dead Rabbits will greatly enjoy reading all about how Hydra and the Barnes bank have gypped their people out of thousands of dollars. And then it’ll spread to the general population, just by word of mouth. And _then_ , well…” she laughs softly, shutting the book with a _thwack_. “Then you’ll have riots on your hands, and no matter how deep in the police’s pockets you are, they won’t keep you from angry mothers forever.”

 

Fisk visibly pales. He swallows, still staring at the Black Widow, who stares right back.

 

“Say I did help you.”

 

The Widow raises her perfectly styled brows.

 

“What happens to me afterwards?”

 

She smiles, a threat in and of itself. Fisk turns back to James, who is the next to speak.

  
“You get to live with the knowledge that your worst fear is actively trying to destroy everything you’ve created. I won’t stop until Hydra is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things:  
> 1\. Idk a lot of stuff, okay? If you have any questions on any of the minor historical details in here, PLEASE feel free to ask. Idk a lot of things but I also do like to research stuff before I write.  
> 2\. I love love love comments of all sorts! I'm always up to have a conversation with my readers. All the support I've gotten so far has made all the difference, honestly.  
> 3\. I'm considering giving Bucky's hair a trim in the next chapter. Thoughts?  
> 4\. Follow me on tumblr! I'm planetarybucky.tumblr.com  
> 5\. I'm a nerd about a lot of other things besides Marvel. Come chat! I love geeking out about Hamilton, Supernatural, Doctor Who, Harry Potter, and everything in between.  
> (6. Matt is blind in this work, but he also has his super hearing, which means I've written him as a blind lawyer who can do pretty much everything normally except read. For that Karen uses a braille typewriter to transpose documents and memos.)  
> 7\. Does anyone still want that playlist?
> 
> Questions? Ask away, ask away, ask away all!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy balls, guys. So much to say right now.
> 
> I feel totally unworthy of this, but the amazing tumblr user muchybucky recced this fic on [thestuckylibrary](http://thestuckylibrary.tumblr.com/post/157846478532/hi-again-am-reading-this-historical-au-wip-and-im) and I could not be more ecstatic! Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying this wild ride of a fic - it's been absolutely great writing it. I don't know how many chapters there will be, but I still have SO much planned. I love you all, whether you've been here since the start or you're here from tumblr. (BTW I'm planetarybucky on there - come say hi!)
> 
> As always merci beaucoup to my beta reader, [DreamingoftheBlackVoid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingoftheblackvoid)
> 
> In other news, Alexander Pierce can't keep it in his pants.

_ The mission had been going smoothly. The Soldier had been sent to the Sierra Nevadas to intercept a stagecoach carrying a large amount of gold from San Francisco to Chicago . He was to eliminate the driver, guard, and anyone inside and drive the stagecoach to a rendezvous point in Las Vegas. The horses - money carriers, taught to stop only for a certain word - would be redirected south and then utilized in more raids and robberies. It was, as far as the Soldier was concerned, a simple in-and-out. _

 

_ He hadn’t calculated for the second stagecoach, a decoy riding behind the one loaded with gold. And rather than riches, this one carried men. Six armed government men. _

 

_ The Soldier gazed out from his perch high above the desert valley, behind a cluster of boulders. About a mile down the trail he could see the pair of stagecoaches. He shifted restlessly; Schmidt hadn’t warned him of this. The Soldier wasn’t accustomed to being unprepared. He’d only brought enough ammunition for a shootout with five or six armed men. Now he was faced with ten. _

 

_ His hat, a stolen leather ten-gallon, shielded his cold eyes from the sun and draped the rest of his face in shadow. The Soldier looked, save the arm, like an outlaw, as that was what he was. His gleaming metal arm was hidden under his shirt, but anyone who looked close enough would see it. And he wore no glove, so one look at his left hand was all that was needed. _

 

_ With stealth that came to him as easily as breathing, the Soldier made his way down into the valley. He positioned himself behind some more rocks and waited.  _

 

_ When he heard the stagecoach wheels against the ground, he emerged. As soon as he stepped out and drew his pistol, the driver of the first stagecoach called out to him. The Soldier fired, and the driver as well as the man sitting atop the coach were dead. _

 

_ Once the horses were closer, the Soldier called out a gravelly “Geronimo!”. The eight stallions, four on each coach, slid to a stop. Dust filled the air and the Soldier trudged forward. The sound of footsteps and hollering was evident in the vast silence of the Nevada desert. _

 

_ As soon as the Soldier could make out one figure, he shot and killed him. Then bullets whizzed past him, and he spun to avoid them, but one lucky bastard landed a shot in his flesh shoulder. _

 

_ The Soldier kept walking, blood running down his chest and staining his shirt. _

 

_ The mission was to be completed, he repeated inside his head, even as seven men converged on him while the dust settled. The horses threw their heads and bucked, restless. _

 

_ “Hey, you! Stop where you are and put your hands in the air!” A foolish mistake, calling out like that. The Soldier turned around and shot the man in the forehead just as he felt a bullet rip through his knee. He grit his teeth and shot at another attacker, hitting him in the lower abdomen. _

 

_ With his leg out of commission, the Soldier limped toward the coach. He’d never been this badly injured on a mission before, usually leaving chaos in his wake as he escaped unscathed. It crossed his mind that he might possibly be past his prime, and that Schmidt sent him not to eliminate but to be eliminated. He’d heard talk of more Soldiers like him. Newer, stronger, more agile replicas of himself.  _

 

_ It made sense, and just as he began to climb up the steps to the driver’s seat, a bullet grazed his thigh. Seeing red, he turned and shot at anything that moved, killing three of the five remaining assailants. The fourth fired at him and struck him below his ribs. _

 

_ The Soldier could not go on. He could not hold himself up for all of the pain. He collapsed on the ground next to the coach with a grunt, eyes wild and hands grabbing at his second holster. This held a pistol with two rounds exactly, and he raised it with a still-steady metallic hand, pointing it at the face of the man who’d shot him in the stomach. _

 

_ “Not so indestructible now are ‘ya, Soldier? S’nice to know you’re hu-” _

 

_ The Soldier pulled the trigger as the last man climbed onto the gold-laden coach, snapping the reins against the horses’ backs as soon as he got hold of them. They surged forward and it was in their departure that the Soldier saw Schmidt tightening a noose around his neck.  _

 

_ The Soldier was unconscious before he could notice the pair of wide brown eyes peeking out at him from behind the underbrush. _

 

_ ~ _

 

_ Certain he is having some sort of vision, the Soldier blinks awake despite being certain he is dead. The first thing he sees is the thatched ceiling belonging to a wickiup, a common Indian shelter. He frowns in confusion and tries to get up, but is stopped by a firm, dark hand on his chest.  _

 

_ An ancient, wrinkled face comes into his view, calm eyes studying the Soldier’s features. The Soldier’s breathing picks up, frightened like a caged animal. The elderly man shushes him and murmurs a few words in a language the Soldier doesn’t understand. He tries to control his breathing, however, and waits to see what this native man wants with him. _

 

_ Had the Soldier been traded off to the Paiute? They are the dominant tribe in this area, the northwestern reaches of Nevada. He’d not known of any deal Schmidt had ever had with them, but then, he wouldn’t if it was him who was to be traded off. _

 

_ His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of more people entering the shelter. Frantically he looks at them, eyes meeting those of three more men, all aging, as well as a younger woman and a small girl that clings to her hand. The Soldier feels confused. Do these people know at all who he is?  _

 

_ The woman speaks first, in accented English. _

 

_ “What is your name?” _

 

_ The Soldier’s eyebrows pull together. What kind of question is that? “They call me the Soldier.” _

 

_ The woman looks at him with striking pity. She moves so that she is seated upon something out of his line of sight, but so that they can more easily speak to one another. _

 

_ “I mean what is your real name? The one given to you at birth.” _

 

_ The Soldier shakes his head. _

 

_ “I was not born. I was created.” _

 

_ The woman looks a bit taken aback at that, and the Soldier takes the moment to try and sit up. Pain shoots up his ribcage and he hisses through his teeth. He then becomes more aware of the pain in his shoulder and knee, all flares of searing heat that threaten to knock him unconscious again. Someone behind him puts a stack of folded blankets beneath his back so that he doesn’t have to lean on the coarse wall of the wickiup.  _

 

_ The Soldier is confused by the kindness these people are showing him. Shouldn’t they be punishing him for failing the mission? Shouldn’t he be locked away somewhere, far from the women and children?  _

 

_ The woman turns to the men and they begin a conversation in their native language. As they do so, the little girl peeks out from behind her mother. She begins walking towards the Soldier. Her mother turns to watch as she does so, and the men seem to want to protest, but they do not. _

 

_ The Soldier doesn’t know how to deal with this. Unsure and confused, he looks up to the woman, who simply raises her eyebrows and nods. _

 

_ The little girl makes her way to the side of the bed. Her dark hair is in a braid, and the practical girlish style makes something shift in the back of the Soldier’s mind. He wills himself to forget it. The girl, no more than eight, comes to a stop right next to him. She stares at him, not breaking eye contact. Slowly she reaches her tiny hand out and the Soldier wants to shy away, but remains rigid. The little girl tentatively touches the soft skin between his eyebrows, in what seems to be an attempt to smooth the lines that have formed there.  _

 

_ She says something in her language, which the Soldier instinctively looks up to the woman to translate. She smiles softly. _

 

_ “She says you mustn’t look so angry, and that to think well is to feel well.” _

 

_ The Soldier looks down at the child, who is now smiling at him. He’s dumbfounded by the situation he has found himself in. He’s never trained for this, never prepared for anything remotely similar to this. He looks up to the mother again, and in his voice deep from disuse, asks her what the child’s name is. _

 

_ She looks fondly at her daughter. _

 

_ “Kobik.” _

 

_ The name means nothing to the Soldier, but upon catching the girl’s intense gaze again, he wonders if it should. _

 

\--

 

“A dinner party? How’d you two manage to convince Fisk to invite you to a  _ dinner party _ ?”

 

Bucky smiles as he reaches up to undo the top button on his shirt. The first thing Steve had done upon his arrival to the hotel was question him about his meeting with Fisk. They’d agreed to meet in the room of whoever arrived second - that way, they could be discrete about their conversation. Natasha had said she had some business in the city and would meet up with them in a day or so. Therefore, it’s just Steve and Bucky for the dinner party he’d been invited to.

 

Bucky knows how it’ll look that he’s taking a man as his plus-one, but he’s beginning to think he might not care. Sure, it’s not typical, but in certain circumstances people have been known to take someone of the same gender to dinners and parties as friends or acquaintances. It still invites gossip, but Bucky is the sort of man whose mere existence invites gossip regardless of his relationships. Something of this variety wouldn’t be seen as a shock; in fact, it might even be expected of someone like him.

 

It’s more the manner of the dinner they’re attending that has him on edge.

 

“Natasha and I convinced him that it’s in his best interests to do so. From what he says, Peirce should be in attendance, and this could be my best chance at getting to him without resorting to violence,” Bucky tells Steve, who gives a snort. Bucky turns to him, confused. Steve is grinning.

 

“Knowing you, you’ll find a way to resort to violence anyway at some point in the evening.”

 

Bucky huffs a laugh at that. There’s a high probability that Steve is entirely correct, seeing as he’s had a penchant for violence ever since he could remember. And, given that Pierce will be there, he knows his temper will flare the moment he sees the man.

 

He wonders how Steve is reacting to all of this. Steve has been such a loyal companion over these past days, and it makes Bucky wonder where he got his keen perception abilities. As he contemplates this, Bucky knows he must inquire about it.

 

“Not to switch the topic of conversation, Steve, but I’ve been curious; where’s your family from? Are your parents immigrants?”

 

He glances over to where Steve is leaning against the post of his bed. The younger man has started to fidget a bit,  avoiding Bucky’s gaze and kicking at the floor. He couldn’t be any more obvious if he tried.

 

“Steve?” Bucky gently prods, forgetting what he was doing and turning to face his friend. 

 

Steve reaches up to scratch the crown of his head, blond hair mussing up a bit. Bucky places a hand on his thin shoulder, reassuring him. “You can tell me, Stevie. You don’t gotta feel ashamed about it. I, of all people, should know how it feels.”

 

Steve sighs, finally directing the focus of his blue eyes to Bucky’s. “My ma came from Ireland when she was thirteen. Her brothers stayed here in the city and got caught up in some bad deals, made friends with bad people. My ma ran to Clyde when she was sixteen to get away from it, but my uncles stayed here and I’ve never heard from ‘em. Don’t even think they know I exist. My pops - my father -”

 

Bucky nodded to urge him along. He could tell that this was something that was hard for Steve to share. It was impossible to know, but this was probably something Steve had never shared with anyone before.

 

“Growin’ up, my pops was always a bit aggressive. Nothin’ too bad, use-ta just push me and ma around when he’d had one too many to drink. Nothin’ we couldn’t handle. He was this big, brutish fella who I always looked up to, but I always got the feeling he was disappointed in me for bein’ so sick all the time. Anyway, one night when I was ‘bout eleven, he was on one of his drunken tirades and was accusin’ ma and I of not contributin’ anythin’ to the household, that he did all’a the work and that sort of thing. Then he said somethin’ about how my ma always looked at other men funny, which was horseshit, but she must’ve shown somethin’ and he figured out that she’d been sleepin’ around before I was born. He put two and two together, came downstairs and roughed me up, and left. Never seen him after that. The next day I asked my ma if it was true, if I was really the bastard child of some unknown man, and she said yes. It’s a weight I’ve carried and been bullied for ever since, Buck. You’re the first person I’ve really told, like this. But you deserve to know. Given all I know about you.”

 

Bucky nods. He can sense the naked sensitivity in Steve’s eyes, and in an attempt to comfort his friend, wraps his flesh arm around him and pulls him close. Bucky’s chin rests just perfectly on top of Steve’s head, and the shorter man begins to shake with silent tears. 

 

They stay like this until Steve pushes at his chest, eyes red and breath uneven. Bucky keeps a hand on his shoulder, and the smaller man looks up to him. He sniffles once.

 

“You wanna start gettin’ ready for this dinner, or what?”

 

Bucky smiles, nodding.

 

-

 

That afternoon, Bucky takes Steve to the tailor uptown which his father used back before the war. The Russo brothers, Italian immigrants and two years apart in age, are the go-to tailors for any man of status in New York. Their winged collars are the crispest white, their tailcoats are the deepest onyx, and they both have an eye for perfection that rivals that of the most esteemed designers in London and Paris. Their office is situated in the most luxurious area of New York, full of windows, mahogany, and marble.

 

As Steve and Bucky walk in, the elderly receptionist gives them a skeptical raised brow.

 

Bucky, ever full of confidence, gives her a grin. He hands her a yellowed, folded sheet of paper.

 

“We haven’t made an appointment, ma’am, but give this to one of the brothers and I think you’ll find they can squeeze my friend here and I in.”

 

She takes it with a thin, wrinkled hand, opens it, frowns, looks back up to Bucky, and draws in a short gasp. Hurriedly, she rises from her seat and rushes through a door to their left.

 

Steve, now quite used to these sort of exchanges, takes an interest in a bust of Lincoln in front of a window.

 

“D’you know this is done by Hiram Powers?” he asked, sounding amused.

 

“I’m afraid to admit I have no idea who that is.” Bucky responded, returning Steve’s look of disbelief with a shrug.

 

“Only the greatest neoclassical sculptor of this century. I read about him in a book, once. He’s got this bust of Washington that looks like it could actually be the guy.”

 

Bucky hummed, trying to conceal a grin. “You like art, Steve?”

 

Even with his back turned, Bucky can tell Steve’s blushing. “So what if I do. You gonna call me a  sissy for it?”

 

Shaking his head, Bucky comes up behind Steve and places a hand on his shoulder. “Nah, never, Steve. What I’d do is I’d ask you to tell me more, because that’s the one area of study I always slacked off in.”

 

Steve turns to say something, but just then the door opens, and Bucky draws his hand back so quick it’s like he touched a hot stove.

 

No matter how mutual their feelings may or may not be for one another, anything they do is still a criminal act, and nothing will change that fact. It’s a sobering thought to have within the span of a second.

 

Composing himself, Bucky turns to the door to see a man in his mid-forties emerge, dressed smartly with a measuring tape around his neck. He looks at Bucky over the wire-rimmed glasses that are perched on his nose.

 

“You’re James Barnes,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’ve got your father’s build, I see. I assume you’ve claimed his credit accounts, yes? Can’t have you walking out of here a thief.”

 

Bucky chuckles. “Yes, I’ve reclaimed his fortune. You need not worry about our payment, Mr. Russo.”

 

The other man nods. “Very well, then. Let’s get you two measured, shall we?”

 

Steve and Bucky are led through the door into a large room full of a seamstress’s dream. Male and female dummies on stands and a vast array of materials hanging from elaborate racks are placed at intervals across one wall. Opposite from that, to their right, is a row of saloon-like doors, leading to where they must do the measuring and fitting. Directly across from where the trio entered is a door labelled ‘OFFICE’ and next to that, a twin pair of ornate, highly expensive Singer sewing machines. From the high ceiling hangs an elaborate crystal chandelier, which casts the room in a golden glow. 

 

Bucky watches Steve gape open-mouthed at the room around them as Russo steps into the office to retrieve something. He returns with a folder about an inch thick in his hands, and waves it a bit towards the fitting rooms.

 

“You first, then, James?”

 

-

 

Russo ended up using the measurements he had in the file from Bucky’s father for Bucky himself - it was Steve who he had trouble with. Steve’s small, lanky stature meant that he had to have very specific and unique measurements taken. Their clothing wouldn’t be finished for a week or two, and once they go in for the final fitting another week after that. This meant Steve and Bucky would have to wear the nicest clothes they’d brought with them, as the dinner is scheduled for the next night. 

 

Luckily, Bucky’s brought his best garments, and even has a spare necktie Steve can wear. Steve’s got his Sunday best with him, a dark gray tailcoat with matching trousers and worn-in black dress boots.

 

They’ve got the afternoon and all of tomorrow to prepare what they plan to do once they spot Pierce.

 

-

 

Contemporary dinner parties are typically held with twelve or thirteen in attendance, typically at the host’s home or in a venue designed for such occasions (for example, a dining hall in a hotel). There are often upwards of twelve courses, each nearly a meal in itself. The social standing of each of the guests is heavily reliant on how they behave and how charismatic they are when contributing to the conversation. There is a set of strict rules when it comes to etiquette, such as how to hold oneself and how to handle food that doesn’t agree with you. Bucky tells Steve these things, seeing as the younger man has never had the chance to attend anything more formal than Christmas dinner with the Carter family.

 

Together they plan how to confront Pierce down to the very last detail, locked in Bucky’s hotel room sitting opposite from one another in matching armchairs. It must work perfectly or else someone could be hurt, or killed. Ideally the only person walking out hurt is Pierce. And they must do it subtly, without disturbing the peace of the evening, or else they risk completely ruining any reputation they have in the city. Bucky knows not who else might be there, but whoever it is, they’re in high enough standing to have dinner with a Senator. 

 

Bucky learned that, too, from Fisk. Pierce is apparently on the United States Senate for New York. The thought puts a bitter taste in his mouth. What is the man now, in his sixties? Seventies? Hasn’t his life been enough of a power grab already? It causes a flare of fury to burn up in his heart, searing and ugly and everything that defined who he was as the Soldier. Bucky thinks he might be able to use his training as the ruthless criminal he was in order to take down men like Pierce. Like Fisk. Like Schmidt.

 

Natasha had mentioned to him another good strategy, which Bucky had then passed on to Steve as they were discussing the dinner. The mobs. Sure, it was organized crime, but there were no men that Hydra hated more than those of the infamous Irish, Dutch, and Italian mobs of New York. They were competition. Bucky would go after them, too, except that they’re mostly comprised of immigrants and workers and the like who have mothers sisters, cousins, and uncles who’ve been unknowingly cheated out of their money by Barnes bank. According to the books Fisk’d given him, the bank had been fining its clients a hell of a sum extra in order to fund Hydra’s endeavors - things like the Winter Soldier project. And the clients had been none the wiser. If Bucky releases the books, the bank will have riots on its hands, and his grandfather’s empire will fall.

 

But not before Bucky builds his own, with Steve right by his side. He’ll put a stop to Hydra, create an effective crime-fighting force that can’t be bribed like the police force can. Put morals, justice, and freedom ahead of power for the leaders. He’s just got to come up with a name.

 

-

 

When it comes time to leave for the dinner, after they’ve gotten dressed and cleaned up, Bucky decides to hire a chauffeur to take them to the address Fisk gave them. From what he’d said, the party was now expecting James Barnes and a companion, and arrangements had been made to fit them in. How accommodating wealthy New Yorkers could be if one only told them someone interesting was involved.

 

Their chauffeur, a kind black man with a top hat, takes the address from Bucky and directs the two bay horses down the street. As the carriage bounces along the cobblestones, Bucky notices Steve staring out the window at the passing people.

 

“You ever notice how many beggars there are in this city, Buck?”

 

Bucky shrugs. “Where there’s rich there must be poor, Steve. And besides, this is America, ‘land of opportunity’. If one tries, they can make it to be anyone. Just look at Carnegie. He immigrated from a little village in Scotland and became one of the wealthiest men in the world.”

 

Steve sighs. “I suppose. It’s just not right that while we’re on our way to eat our hearts out there’s people here starving to death.”

 

Bucky remains silent after that, contemplating what Steve has just said.

 

-

 

They arrive at the mansion ten minutes later and tip the driver generously. The steps to the door are elaborate brick, bright red matching the house in front of them. Bucky’s brought his pipe and a cloud of smoke encircles his head like a fog, but it calms him. The scent of tobacco always has, and besides, it makes him look more like one of them. One of these elite New York businessmen, not a wild west criminal out of one of Steve’s books.

 

His right hand hesitates at the door, so Steve knocks for him. They make eye contact and Steve nods, sensing Bucky’s nervousness.

 

The door opens to reveal a young maid with bright red hair, not unlike Natasha’s. She gives them a tight smile and inquires about their names. Bucky gives his and they are ushered in.

 

The place is magnificent, and reminds him of his childhood. Paintings of family members long dead, books on shelves that no one has touched, and floors so polished you could count the hairs in your reflection. The maid leads them to the right, through a set of open glass French doors, into the dining hall. There are people already mingling about. A quick glance tells Bucky that Pierce is not yet here, but will be shortly.

 

The house is one of Fisk’s friends’, a man by the name of Zebediah Kilgrave. He is supposedly, according to Natasha, an expert con artist and one of the richest in the city. This party is not to confront him, Bucky reminds himself, but rather Pierce. One rat at a time.

 

As soon as they enter, heads turn. There’s an even mix of men and women in the room, and each of them seem to be looking at the pair that has just entered. Kilgrave himself, a man just a hair shorter than Bucky, walks up and introduces himself.

 

“You must be the famed James Barnes, yes? Wilson told me all about your wonderful return. How you’re back to claim your father’s empire, and all that. I must ask, who’s your plus one here? Anyone I might know?”

 

Bucky can tell Steve’s seething at being referred to without being directly addressed, but he miraculously keeps a smile on his face regardless. Bucky claps him on the shoulder with his gloved metal hand.

 

“Not likely. He’s a good friend of mine, an associate. Steve Rogers” - Bucky gestures between the two of them - “Zebediah Kilgrave.”

 

Steve extends a hand for Kilgrave to shake, and the other man takes it. 

 

The clock then strikes 5:15, and the front door opens. Bucky’s head turns out of habit, but he knows the man at the door before he can even see him. Heavy footsteps, a whiff of sandalwood, a rude ignorance of the maid.

 

_ Pierce _ .

 

Kilgrave claps his hands together. “Let’s take a seat, shall we? And welcome the man of the hour, Senator Pierce!”

 

The rest of the party claps, making their way to their seats. Steve and Bucky glance at one another, fleetingly, before moving to the back of the group and finding their seats. They’re next to each other, Bucky’s next to Kilgrave at the head and Steve’s next to the wife of some man neither of them know. Pierce hasn’t seen either of them yet, too caught up in talking to his friends. Bucky and Steve wait for everyone to find their spot before they all sit in unison, and it’s only when Bucky looks up from situating his chair under himself that he sees the horrified expression on the face of the man across from him.

 

Pierce is staring at him, eyes wide and face pale. Bucky raises a brow and cocks an arrogant smile. “You surprised to see me, Senator? I must say, I hadn’t thought I’d changed that much.”

 

Before Pierce can answer, Kilgrave interjects. “You two know each other? By god, you should’ve told us! How’d you meet?”

 

Bucky pretends to try to remember. The memory is as clear as day to him, always easy to remember even amidst the confusion that clouds his mind sometimes. “If I do recall correctly, it was on a train to Denver, no?”

 

Pierce swallows, nodding. “Yes. We met on a train from New York to Denver. He was about eighteen.”

 

Bucky smiles, as if he’s wistful about the experience, but being seated across from his mortal enemy means a fake smile and the table between them are all that’s keeping him from strangling the man.

 

That, and the solid comfort of Steve’s hand on his knee.

 

Bucky takes a puff of his pipe, releasing smoke into the air. Three of the six other men, Steve excluded, are also smoking, along with two of the women. All the tobacco smoke in the air is calming his nerves, causing him to slow down and think about things.

 

In the forefront of Bucky’s mind is the nearly sick pleasure he’s getting in seeing Pierce squirm across from him. It’s not unlike the feeling he got when he picked up the katana in Fisk’s home and revealed to him his true identity. He supposes it’s a hunger for power over those who once had power over him, a demented sort of revenge, in a way. Bucky recalls a word he learned while studying French -  _ revenir _ , or to come back, especially from the dead. He associates himself with this and delights in seeing the expression of his enemies encountering what must be - to them - a ghost. A vengeful spirit with its sights set on them.

 

The dinner continues on, with Steve holding his own in the conversation and doing quite an exceptional job at it. Every once and awhile, the two steal a glance at one another, just to touch base. So far, the plan is still solidly in place.

 

The food is incredibly decadent, ranging from roast chicken to candied yams to lobster bisque to a caesar salad topped with olive oil and blue cheese. Bucky manages to avoid the meat, acting as if he’s too caught up in chatting to Kilgrave to maneuver the fork into his mouth or simply pushing it around to make it look scarce.

 

The topic of conversation turns to family. A man at the end of the table tells of his Italian mother, who makes the best panini one could dream of. Another man elaborates on his brother’s prized delicatessen, a family tradition for two generations now. Kilgrave tells of his ancestors coming from England to the New World by boat, seeking religious freedom. Pierce tells of his Irish mother and seeing the Emerald Isle as a young boy. Kilgrave looks to Bucky, a curious expression on his face.

 

“And what about you, James? We know your grandfather’s from England, what about your mother’s side?”

 

Bucky smiles. “My mother was Romanian, her maiden name being ‘Dalca’. She was the daughter of the town’s pastor. I never met him, they hated us for being Catholic.”

 

The table laughs at that and Bucky smiles easily. The noise dies down and in an act of sudden boldness, Bucky makes direct eye contact with Pierce. 

 

“My sister looked just like her, you know? Absolutely lovely. Got the wrong sort of attention sometimes. I wanted to strangle every fella that even looked at her wrong.”

 

Amidst the nodding and agreement, Pierce’s face goes just a bit paler.

 

-

 

The end of the dinner comes quickly. Their last course is an Italian sorbet flavored like strawberries, and then the guests are rising and chatting away at various places around the area of the dining hall. One set of French doors leads to a balcony overlooking the harbor. Bucky makes eye contact with Steve, nods towards the door, then looks at Pierce. Steve nods back and quietly makes his way to the doors while Bucky goes to find Pierce.

 

It’s not hard. The man is sipping a glass of champagne, standing near Kilgrave but not speaking to him or anyone else in the group. Bucky walks up and places his metal hand on Pierce’s shoulder. He looks to Kilgrave.

 

“My friend and I need to have a word with the Senator, Zebediah. Think you might spare him for a moment?”

 

He gets an  _ of course, of course _ in response and guides Pierce to the balcony. They step through the doors and the solid oak shuts behind them. The balcony is large, with a sitting area and a far railing where Steve is standing facing them.

 

Bucky, who hasn’t moved his hand, squeezes in a subtle show of exactly what’s beneath the leather of his glove. He gives Pierce a friendly look, and smiles.

 

“It’s just me, Alex, no need to look so spooked. I haven’t changed all that much since you introduced me to Schmidt, I promise. What’s a fella without a decade of brainwashing and murder got to tell stories about, anyway?”

 

Bucky smiles again, and Pierce finally opens his mouth.

 

“How in the  _ hell _ are you still alive? Schmidt told me you went rogue.”

 

Bucky laughs at that. “Much to the dismay of both Hydra and myself, I lived thanks to the help of an elderly man and a girl almost as young as Becca was when you raped her.”

 

Pierce’s sneer falls. Bucky doesn’t waver, keeps his eyes locked with Pierce’s. He leans in and puts his mouth just next to Pierce’s ear.

 

“I’ve been waiting since the moment we shook hands on that train to see you dead. Now I’m thinking that might be too good for a man like you.”

 

With the strength of a limb forged from evil and rage, Bucky pushes Pierce towards Steve, who’s looking at Pierce like he’s just kicked his dog. Steve, Bucky’s most loyal friend, is looking at Pierce with fire burning in his eyes. Bucky knows it’s an exceptionally bad time for such notions, but he can’t help but think that Steve has never looked more beautiful. The sunset is filled with purples and oranges, and the fire in Steve’s eyes ignites it all. Bucky has his eyes trained on Steve, now intent to know what he’s got to say.

 

“I swear on the good name of Sarah H. Rogers, there shouldn’t be men like you allowed to li-”

 

Pierce, somehow, manages to interrupt him. Bucky’s grip on his shoulder tightens.

 

“Did you just say Sarah Rogers, boy?”

 

Steve raises a brow. “Yeah, I did. Thought invoking the full name of my momma might make it come true.”

 

Pierce stiffens. “Your  _ mother _ ?”

 

Steve looks for a moment at Bucky, who shrugs. He looks back to Pierce, squinting.“Yeah, what are you, deaf, old man?”

 

“How old are you, exactly?”

 

Steve scoffs. “Twenty-one last July. What do you care?”

 

Pierce lets out a strange noise, and manages to rip his shoulder from Bucky’s grip. Pierce moves closer to Steve, studying him. Steve doesn’t budge. Bucky moves to get between them, but stops himself and decides to let it play out. He still remains poised and ready for attack should something go south.

 

“You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doin’ here?” Steve asks, obviously uncomfortable.

 

“You’re from Clyde, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah, now answer my question, you asswipe.” 

 

“Sarah Rogers… 1871… by god, Steven, I think you’re my son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make my heart sing with the happy songs of summertime!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's been a millennia. I just had finals and took a trip to Europe (first time out of the US!!), so that's why I've been so AWOL lately. Stuff like that taxes your creative juices. But now it's summertime and updates should be more regular (yay!).
> 
> On another note, one of my tumblr posts made it kinda big recently and I'm proud As Heck and you should [check it out](http://strangerbucky.tumblr.com/post/161211686094/guys-i-just-realized-something) (as soon as you've finished reading this, of course ;) )
> 
> Major thanks as always to my beta reader, [DreamingoftheBlackVoid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingoftheblackvoid)
> 
> Anywho, enjoy! I love hearing from you all, it makes my day beyond belief. You're the best readers a writer could ask for. ♥

_ Seamus Hughes hasn’t seen his sister in 34 years. _

 

_ They’d arrived in the New World to escape the ‘Gorta Mór’ which had ravaged their homeland and killed their people. Few were as lucky as they had been, to be able to set off across the ocean on a boat and start anew in America. Their neighbor, for example, had lost his children one by one to starvation and then his wife, and no longer seeing any reason for living, hanged himself from the branches of an oak tree in his backyard. _

 

_ Seamus, the oldest Hughes child, swore to his family that he’d rather eat horse manure than see that happen to any of them. _

 

_ So he saved up, stole coins here and there, and got them third-class tickets on the ‘Herman Roosen’. They sailed from Dublin to New York and the moment they stepped onto American soil, Seamus knew they were saved. _

 

_ At the time, he was 18. Sarah was 13. They had two other brothers -  Conan, at 16, and Malachi, at 9. Their mother had died giving birth to Malachi and their father, a devout Catholic, worked in a mill a few hours from their village - in Dublin. He’d been planning to accompany them, but had been tragically killed in an accident. The children had no family in America, and being Irish wasn’t exactly ideal. They slept in alleyways until Seamus and Conan could get jobs with Sarah at home with Malachi. _

 

_ They began renting a tenement room in which there were two beds, one for Sarah and Malachi, one for Seamus and Conan. The first few months were the hardest of Seamus’ life, but they had food in their stomachs and blankets to keep them warm during winter.  _

 

_ Then Seamus and Conan were approached by Finnigan, and it all went to hell after that. _

 

\---

 

Bucky is barely able to draw his fist back for a punch before Steve beats him to it, delivering a ruthless right hook to the corner of Pierce’s mouth. Pierce’s face twists up in pain, spots of blood flying from his lips. Bucky catches his collar with his metal hand, glove now off, and squeezes, stretching the expensive fabric and cutting off Pierce’s air supply.

 

“You think I won’t kill you right now, Senator? I will, I swear’ta God above, Pierce, if you don’t give me a damn good reason for why you said that, you’re a dead man walking.”

 

Pierce coughs, turns his head to spit out some blood. He takes in a shallow, wheezing breath.

 

“Twenty two years ago, your mother was still reeling from the loss of your father. I stayed a night in the Inn at Clyde to check on her, make sure you were all right with her. Steven’s mother was working as the maid there.”

 

Bucky tastes bile in his throat. He tightens his grip, makes sure that the plates of his thumb are catching on the exposed flesh of Pierce’s neck.

 

“You’re telling me, then, that not only did you have the  _ nerve _ to show your face in my home after what you did to Becca, you - you  _ fucked _ someone  _ that very same night  _ and didn’t deem it necessary to check up on  _ her _ ?! Or the child you left behind?”

 

Bucky knows his face is twisted into a violent scowl. His teeth are exposed like a dog’s, his breath quick and furious. The vulgarity that escaped his lips moments before goes unnoticed, or unacknowledged, by his usual verbal filter. He absolutely cannot help himself. This man, this detestable vermin, is going to pay one way or another. For what he did to Becca, to Bucky, to  _ Steve _ …

 

It hits him then that this is Steve’s father. His last blood family. Regardless of Bucky’s history with the man, Steve might see him differently now, and Bucky wouldn’t live with himself if he killed someone Steve thought of as kin. Cautiously, he looks over to Steve, who seems on the same boat as Bucky. Make the man pay.

 

Pierce’s hands are now grabbing at Bucky’s arm and immediately he releases him, pushing so he loses his footing and stumbles slightly. 

 

“I’m not going to hurt you here, Alex. Not with all of those people in there having a nice time. What we’re going to do is we’re gonna leave separately, you’re gonna get in the cab, and we’re gonna take a little trip down to the docks. That sound good to you, Steve?”

 

The blond man nods. Pierce looks at him with disbelief, brushing off his collar as he does so.

 

“I can prove it, Steven. I can prove I’m your father, I’ve got pictures of Sarah she gave me to keep. You’ll see - you’ll see I can provide for you, what I can  _ do _ for you…”

 

Steve’s mouth curves up into a humorless grin. “You’ve  _ done _ enough, Pierce. I don’t need your help, not anymore. You’re about two decades too late. You mean about as much to me as a pile of horse manure in the street.”

 

Bucky laughs, then. Finally,  _ finally _ , he has his revenge on Alexander Pierce, and someone else sees the man for what he is. He’s sure it sounds manic, but he can’t stop laughing. The man is, at long last, going to pay his dues.

 

-

 

The trio steps out of the cab a block or so from the docks, near some pubs and tenement houses. They walk down the cobblestone street quickly, Bucky with his metal hand firm on Pierce’s shoulder. Eerily, there seems to be no one out, which is strange for a pleasant evening such as this.

 

They reach the expansive space where wooden shipping boxes, rope, and large stones lay discarded and scattered about the area. From here they can see ships coming in far off on the horizon, and against the dark blue of the nighttime sky they can just see the silhouette of Lady Liberty under the glowing flame of her torch.

 

They’d left the party separately, not wanting to cause suspicion among the guests. Bucky had dismissed himself first with the excuse that he wasn’t feeling well, then hid in the trees along the driveway and waited for Pierce to exit. Once Pierce had done so, about twenty minutes later and under the watch of Steve, who was still inside, Bucky ‘escorted’ Pierce to their cab. Steve followed after about five minutes of farewells and apologies on Barnes’ part.

 

No one suspected a thing.

 

And now here they are, Pierce facing his inevitable demise and Bucky enjoying every moment of it.

 

“I have friends in high places, Barnes. You get rid of me and they’ll find you. They’ll kill you, Barnes. Do you really want that?”

 

Bucky laughs at this. As he does so, Steve drags over a box painted red, labelled ‘IRON NAILS’, and appearing fairly sturdy.

 

“Pierce, I was dead the moment Schmidt caught sight of me on that train. You really think some corporate goons scare me after all I’ve done? After all you and your Hydra buddies have put me through? You really dug your own grave, here, Senator.”

 

Bucky spins him around and sits him harshly down on the box. Steve hurriedly loops a length of rope through Pierce’s arms, tying a knot and restricting his movement in one fluid motion. Steve gets up and moves to stand next to Bucky.

 

Bucky starts by putting his flesh hand on his hip. “Now, we could do this one of two ways. Either you confess to everything you did to both of us and our families, and get a bullet through your brain and a couple’a stones tied to your ankles before we toss you over, or keep your mouth shut and get nothing but those rocks. Your choice entirely.”

 

Pierce raises his chin, clenching his jaw and insisting his silence.

 

Bucky nods. “Okay. Alright, Pierce.” He turns to look at Steve, who wears a completely blank, neutral look on his face.

 

“You got anything you want to say to him?”

 

Steve’s jaw moves ever so slightly, a tiny back-and-forth motion, and Bucky watches with amusement as Steve spits in the man’s face. It lands just below his right eye. Bucky can tell this has some sort of significance to Steve, because he’s smiling oddly. The smaller man seems satisfied with what he’s done, and that’s a good enough goodbye for Bucky. 

 

He then reaches into his coat and pulls out a pistol, handing it swiftly to Steve. Just loudly enough so Pierce can hear, he whispers -

 

“ _ He tries anything funny, shoot him where it hurts. _ ”

 

Bucky then leaves to find two large stones. He spots one and carries it over with ease, then brings another over.

 

Together they tie ropes to Pierce’s ankles and Bucky uses some discarded fishing net to attach the stones to these lengths of rope. The task is quite laborious, and Bucky is fairly surprised that Pierce remains silent through the whole process. No bargaining, no begging, no threats, nothing. Bucky wonders if it’s resignation or something he doesn’t know. If Pierce is hiding something and planning to take it to the grave, something that puts either one or both of them in danger. Right now, Bucky doesn’t want to think about such things, doesn’t want to break the sweet silence of his enemy’s defeat. They will deal with the repercussions when they come.

 

Bucky forces Pierce to stand, and Steve moves the box out of the way. Pierce turns of his own accord and Bucky begins to nudge the stones forward. Once they’re on the edge of the dock, he stops. Pierce’s toes are just barely over the edge. Bucky leans in so his mouth is just next to Pierce’s ear.

 

“I want your dying thought to be of me and Steve, and how you were destroyed by the people you ruined.”

 

With finality, he and Steve push the rocks over the edge, and into the depths of the harbor tumbles Alexander Pierce.

 

-

 

After scattering some discarded liquor bottles in the area, just to make it look like a drunk might’ve stumbled that way should anyone come looking for Pierce, Steve and Bucky begin the walk back to where they might find a cab. It was approximately 9:30 at night, and faintly Bucky can hear the distant cacophonies of saloons and pubs teeming with New York nightlife. He looks over to Steve, who’s mindlessly kicking at the ground as he walks, hands deep in his pockets.

 

“You can’t be as fine with this as you’re making yourself out to be, Steve,” Bucky says, stepping around a discarded cigar box.

 

The smaller man looks at him with daggers shining in his blue eyes. “If you’re expecting me to weep over that - that  _ insect _ , who thought he mattered to me because he loved my mother for a night, you’re sorely mistaken, Mister Barnes.”

 

Bucky raises his eyebrows at that. Steve is obviously hurting, but Bucky doesn’t know how to help him without overstepping and causing Steve to draw further into himself. He sighs, looking back to the road ahead and allowing heavy silence to once again enter the space between them.

 

They turn the corner after a few minutes of walking and come upon a street brighter than the ones they had passed previously. The sound of music courses through the air, a giddy Irish tune coming from a bar just up the street. People mill about the entrance, men with beards and playful eyes and women with stylish hair and beautiful smiles.

 

Bucky gets an idea.

 

He takes Steve by the shoulder and maneuvers him towards the Irish bar. Steve looks up at him with frustration and Bucky resolutely ignores it. They come to the entrance and the wooden sign above the door reads ‘ _ Seamus’ Tavern _ ’, and Bucky smiles at one of the men near the door. Together he and Steve enter.

 

Immediately they’re surrounded by the smell of tobacco, Irish whiskey, and stale breath. The music is just audible above the symphony of voices, surrounding them like snow on a winter’s day. Bucky grins broadly; he just knows this is what’ll cheer Steve up. He turns to Steve and nudges him in the shoulder. The smaller man tries to bite back a smile, but fails, and winds up with a reluctant but bright grin across his face. It’s impossible to frown with the music that they’re playing, all jigs and reels and perfect to dance to. 

 

They go up to the bar and order two whiskeys, both neat. Steve takes his in a pale, bony hand and looks to Bucky, almost in disbelief. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, and changes his mind one more.

 

“You’re not disgusted with me? For being… his?”

 

Bucky nearly laughs. He doesn’t though, and looks Steve in the eye. 

 

“No, Steve, I’m not. Why would you think that?”

 

Steve shrugs. “Something my teacher once told me stuck with me forever, and it’s plagued me ever since I found out about my father. He told us that children always grow up to be their parents, it’s in how they’re raised, and in their soul. He said he never knew his mother but later learned that she was a schoolteacher in Virginia, just as he was in Clyde. I’ve always held this thought that my father would be this writer, some wild man who lives in the woods and creates stories like Thoreau. I imagined him as nothing but goodness, and then to find out it’s  _ him _ , of all people…”

 

Bucky can see the pain in Steve’s eyes. He thinks he understands, to some extent, the torture of expecting something and being completely destroyed by the truth. “It’s devastating,” he finishes, taking a sip of his drink. Steve nods, and suddenly it’s much too sorrowful at their place at the bar than it ought to be. Bucky swallows the rest of the whiskey, exhaling loudly at the burn crawling down his throat, and holds his hand out to Steve.

 

“Let’s go dance, shall we?”

 

They don’t dance together, of course, no matter how much Bucky might want it. But they do get up and move along to the upbeat, swinging rhythms of Ireland. Bucky thinks he might now understand why the Irish are so hopeful, such believers in tomorrow being a better day. It’s because of their music.

 

The melody is youthful, and when Bucky moves his feet as he’s seen the other men do, he feels like a teenager full of hope and potential again. It reminds him of times before the fire, when Becca would take him out to the woods and they’d run and play and be free. The strings pluck at his bones, the drums pound in his heart, the flute rushes through his lungs. He takes the hands of ladies he doesn’t know and twirls them around, their dresses fanning out as they laugh with him. Steve even manages to join in the reel, dancing with women taller than him but it doesn’t matter, not with such joy in the air. It’s truly magical, and Bucky doesn’t want it to end.

 

But it does, as most things do, and the band slows down. Most people take this time to go back to their drinks and freshen up. Bucky sees a pair of lovers in a corner booth peck each other on the mouth, the sounds a lovely serenade to their evening. He can’t help but be jealous. 

 

Speaking of, Steve seems to have gone off somewhere. Bucky looks around, but to no avail. He figures he’s just in the restroom, or at the bar somewhere. Bucky decides to grab an empty table and wait for Steve there.

 

In passing the space where the musicians are playing, Bucky glances up momentarily and locks eyes with someone. It’s a chance thing, but Bucky is thrown back into nightmare-memories of mines and pickaxes and explosions-

 

“Barnes?”

 

Timothy Dugan is staring at him, but Bucky doesn’t allow himself the pleasure of thinking that this really  _ is _ . There’s got to be some mistake, some misunderstanding -

 

But he’d recognize that bowler cap anywhere.

 

There’s a moment where neither of them move, and the crowd around them continues on, a restless sea of people. Bucky’s chest is tight, and it feels like he can’t breathe under the weight of Dum-Dum’s gaze. It feels too much like a fever dream, like maybe the whiskey’s getting to him, like -

 

Before he can react, Dum-Dum is getting up from his seat and moving across the room. They meet, and hug tightly, and Bucky knows then that this was fate. He was meant to walk into this pub on this day and be exactly where he was when he was. They pull apart from one another and Tim puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

 

“I thought you were dead, Barnes,” he admits, eyes shimmering with tears in the low lamplight of the center of the room.

 

Bucky nods towards an empty booth, away from the noise. “Let’s talk, Dum-Dum. I think it’s long overdue.”

 

-

 

Steve  _ finally _ spots Bucky in a booth on the far wall, after about five minutes of frantic searching. You’d think a guy could go to the john and not have to conduct a manhunt to find his pal afterwards. Ready to give Barnes a piece of his mind, he makes his way across the room to the booth until he sees someone else in it.

 

More specifically, one of the musicians who was playing earlier. Now he’s just confused.

 

Luckily, Bucky sees him and gestures him over with a grin. Steve walks over and stands at the end of the table, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

 

“This a friend of yours, Bucky? Is that why you dragged me in here?”

 

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s a friend, yes, but not one I ever expected to see again. Steve, meet Dum-Dum Dugan, and Dum-Dum, meet my good friend Steve Rogers.”

 

Bucky’s grinning like no tomorrow when Steve shakes Dum-Dum’s hand. The man wears a bowler cap, and has an impressive handlebar mustache. His handshake is firm and he’s smiling just as much as Bucky is. 

 

“Here, take a seat,” Bucky offers, sliding over to make room for Steve on the bench. Steve sits, feeling almost as if he’s interrupting something. If Dum-Dum is a friend of Bucky’s, it must have been years since they’ve seen each other. Does he know about what Bucky went through? Does he know what Bucky did? Does he even know about the arm? 

 

Bucky seems to sense Steve’s uneasiness, and puts a hand on his shoulder, reassuring. “You both know wildly different things about my past, but each of them are just as true. Now, I’m going to tell you exactly what you want to know, and I expect no interruption until I’m done. Is that agreeable?”

 

Dum-Dum and Steve both nod, looking at Bucky with similar curious expressions.

 

Bucky takes a deep breath. “When I was eighteen, I rode on horseback from my home to New York, then took a train from there to Denver. On this train I met Johann Schmidt, who offered me a job within his mining empire. There I met Arnim Zola who - with Steve’s help - I’ve managed to wipe off the face of this earth.”

 

Dum-Dum’s eyebrows rise as Steve smiles, remembering that day at the Manor.

 

“The day following my arrival in Denver, I woke up in a stone cell in the ground, with no knowledge of how I’d gotten there. That was when I met Dum-Dum. He was in another cell, as were four other guys who didn’t deserve half the things Schmidt put them through. We sat there for a week with meals once a day and only being allowed out for five minutes to relieve ourselves after we had finished eating. It was hell, like nothing I’d ever experienced before. I couldn’t understand why I’d been put through this, as nothing I’d done was reason for contempt. It was was on the seventh day that guards forced us from our cells. We were dragged further into the earth, then given pickaxes and shovels. They stationed us in various mines, and told us to work until we saw silver. Dum-Dum was stationed with me, as was Morita and Monty. I never saw the other men after that. We worked constantly, and only took breaks to eat the meager rations they dropped down the mine shaft, drink the soda water that came with, and relieve ourselves somewhere far away from where we worked. We slept when we passed out from exhaustion, and only got back to work because we were hopeful idiots who thought if we struck silver, we’d be freed.”

 

Bucky and Dum-Dum make eye contact, something deep and understood running like fire between them.

 

“We weren’t, even after Dum-Dum found the largest vein of silver I’d ever thought possible. They forced us back down there, and it lasted for months. We never saw the light of day during that whole time, which made the explosion that much more unbearable.

 

“It was just as we were getting back to work after having some food that I hit something with my pickaxe. I remember my heart dropping, and then there was nothing. I was nearly killed by the explosion that followed, and that was how I lost my arm.

 

“Zola took me into some laboratory where they attached to me this metal contraption they called a limb. A weapon, which made me the deadliest force known to man. It made me a machine, something unholy. They threw me in another cage and used the effects of the blast on my brain to whittle me down into nothing but a blank, cooperative soldier. From there, they created a criminal, a ruthless killing machine who could execute killings and thefts and raids better than any man with a conscience.

 

“The only reason I can talk about it now, the only reason I’m here now, is because of a tribe of natives who took me in after I’d been badly injured on a mission. They cared for me and brought my memories back, one by one. I owe my life to them, but I had to leave. So I did, as soon as I could. I rode for what seemed to be endless nights in the backs of wagons and supply carts, a ghost of my former self. I arrived to the Manor and a few weeks later, received a piece of mail from Steve which changed my life.”

 

Bucky finished and for a moment, there was silence within the booth. Steve and Dum-Dum were both staring at Bucky, who was fiddling with something on the table. Then, Dum-Dum lets out a low whistle. 

 

“Geez, Barnes. Quite the tale of redemption you’ve got there. What’s this limb you were talking about?”

 

Bucky smiles, looking up to Dum-Dum with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this, Dugan.”

 

Before Steve can register the slight accent that’s gone back into Bucky’s voice, Bucky’s slipped his left glove off and is holding his hand out for Dum-Dum to examine. It shimmers in the lamplight, and Dum-Dum’s eyes widen like saucers. 

 

“Holy cow, Barnes. You weren’t kiddin’. It’s really connected? To your brain and all?”

 

“As far as I can tell. Just like having a regular arm.”

 

“Not heavy or anything?”

 

“Not one bit. I suppose if I were to get out of shape, it might begin to weigh me down, but it seems to have been built with the strength of my chest and back in mind. It’s really fascinating when you ignore its origin.”

 

Steve watches the exchange with thinly veiled envy. These two have a past that he and Bucky will never be able to share; Dum-Dum can talk to Bucky about the experiences they faced together, reminisce on old times. He suddenly feels like a third wheel, and begins to excuse himself until Bucky puts his right hand firmly on his shoulder, a solid weight keeping him seated.

 

“Where’re you going, Steve?” Bucky asks, not accusing or angry, simply curious.

 

Steve shrugs, feeling suddenly very young. “I just feel kinda like I’m intrudin’ on your happy reunion - like you don’t need me h-”

 

“Of course I need you here,” Bucky interjects, moving his hand from Steve’s shoulder to rest on his back. “You’re my best guy, Steve.”

 

-

 

Later that night, as they’re getting ready to leave, Bucky asks Dum-Dum something that’s been bothering him all night.

 

“What happened to the other guys, Dum-Dum?”

 

Dum-Dum sighs, crossing his arms. “Well, Morita, Gabe, and Frenchie are all livin’ here in the city. Monty’s back in London, last I heard.”

 

Bucky tilted his head so his words were more hidden, speaking directly into Dum-Dum’s ear. “You think any of ‘em are up for a bit of excitement? Steve and I have some unfinished business in the city and we might need some muscle. I know you got out of this mess, but it’s up against Schmidt and some of his partners. What do you think?”

 

Dum-Dum smiled, a sly thing under that mustache still tipped with beer foam. “Hell, I’ll always fight. They probably will too. But you gotta do one thing for me.”

 

Bucky smiles, feeling elated to have his friends back alongside him. “What’s that?”

 

“Your Steve.” Dum-Dum nudges him, and he turns to look over where the blond is closing up the tab at the bar. “I can tell how good he is for you. Don’t let anyone, or your over-thinking self get in between what you two have, yeah?”

 

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods and tucks the words close to his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the Herman Roosen was an actual boat that sailed from Dublin to New York around that time. Yes, I do my homework.
> 
> Also, don't forget to leave kudos and comments! I love love love any and everything I hear from you! ♥


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long and I have no excuse other than school and summer camps. Lame. I know. I'm the worst.
> 
> However, even though this is a short chapter compared to my other ones, I think you should enjoy it nonetheless. 
> 
> As always, thanks to my lovely beta, @dreamingoftheblackvoid

_ Becca knows Bucky is special. She knows it, in every inch of her soul she can tell he’s gonna be better than anyone in their family ever has been. He might only be ten, but he’s already reading his father’s books on advanced calculus and the writings of Shakespeare. _

 

_ She watches him study sometimes. His shimmering gray eyes flit over the words like they’re birds in the sky, racing across the page in a mad dash to get inside his head. Bucky even sometimes talks to himself, murmuring Newton’s laws and Darwin’s journals and Galileo's theories just to hear the knowledge aloud. Becca wishes she could get inside his mind, see the gears working like a machine. He’s already vastly smarter than her; can speak French and Latin fluently, Russian and Japanese with a little more difficulty. He’s educated himself on social issues and often talks to Dolly about the War and how she was affected by it. Little Bucky has a brain bigger than New York, and it’s growing by the minute. _

 

_ Their mother sees none of it. _

 

_ Becca works at the local blacksmith and receives enough comments from her mother about that as it is, and she can handle it. She knows it’s man’s work, but both she and the owner of the shop also know she’s better at forging than most the men in the town. So she doesn’t let her mother’s comments faze her. It’s when she talks about how Bucky’s a ‘sissy’ or ‘won’t become much of a man at all’ that Becca gets angry. Logically she knows it’s because of the liquor, but that doesn’t make it ok. _

 

_ “You pretend to know exactly what he’s gonna become, Winifred! He’ll -” Becca is in the parlor with her mother, who sits with a needlepoint in her hands and a bottle of whiskey on the table next to her. Bucky is, thankfully, in his room where he can’t hear the yelling. Becca stands with her hands on her hips. _

 

_ “That’s because I  _ do _ know what he’s going to become, Rebecca. Boys like him, boys with no interest in adventure or competition always end up the same.” _

 

_ Becca bristles. “Yes, mother, they end up in New York or Washington with law degrees or doctorates.” _

 

_ “You’re naive, Rebecca. Always seeing the best. But this is reality, and he’s useless without a sense of self preservation. A sense of masculinity, of being a man. Without those he’ll be stuck cleaning the streets or delivering the paper. Jobs any pushover ninny can do.” _

 

_ “Have you ever looked at what he studies? Listened to him talk about world affairs? Did -” _

 

_ “I don’t need -” _

 

_ “Did you know that he can speak French, mother?” _

 

_ Becca has never cut off her mother before. She’s never interrupted, not once in her twenty-one years of life has she spoken while her mother is, even though she is cut off nearly every other sentence. She locks eyes with Winifred Barnes and crosses her arms. _

 

_ “He can speak French fluently, mother. Latin, too.” _

 

_ Winifred’s gaze hardens. “You will not interrupt your mother again. Mind your place in this house, girl.” _

 

_ Becca wishes she could just pack Bucky and his books away on a horse and ride away from this place for good. _

 

\---

 

Natasha said she’d be back in a few days. It’s been a week, and there’s been no sign of her. Not even a letter or telegram. Steve is, to say the least, stressed.

 

“What if she was ambushed? What if she was still working with the Red Room? What if they found her? What if she’s dead? Oh,  _ God _ , Bucky, she’s dead, isn’t she!”

 

Bucky looks up at him from his spot on his bed. He’s got his legs crossed and a book in his hands, held far away from his face because he hasn’t had the time to get reading glasses. You know, being part of an underground crime ring really taxes your time to do such things. He’s reading his copy of Darwin’s  _ Theory of Evolution _ . 

 

“Steve, it’s Natasha. If she were ambushed, the attackers would come out worse than her. But somehow I doubt it’s anything that interesting. I saw dark clouds to the north yesterday; she probably got caught in a storm and had to quarter with someone along the way.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “I just got a bad feeling about this, Buck.”

 

He flops down in the armchair across the room. Bucky sighs, closing the book. “Come now, don’t mope like that. Tell me, how were those lawyers you visited?”

 

At that, Steve sits up. “Oh, yeah. That was quite interesting. They were both real nice an’ smart an’ stuff, an’ they seemed keen to take your case, but…”

 

“But what, Steve?”

 

“I think one of ‘em’s blind. It was the strangest thing. He wouldn’t look in the right places and didn’t write anythin’ down, but when he left he caught the door as he was leavin’ so it wouldn’t slam. He shouldn’t have been able to see that.”

 

Bucky shrugs a bit. “Well, maybe he’s learned to hear things instead of see them. Blind people often have a more acute sense of hearing because they’re not so focused on seeing.”

 

Steve seems to ponder that. “Hm, maybe. Anyways, they took the case, and told me they’d send for us once they’d gathered some materials. That’s how they put it, at least. Should be sometime soon, now that I think of it.”

 

Bucky nods. He recalls meeting a man years ago who couldn’t see with his eyes, but saw rather with his ears and hands. He was one of the best warriors in the tribe, and Bucky learned much from the way he described his world. From small vibrations in the earth from a herd of wild horses to a shift in the wind indicating an oncoming storm, Bucky’s become a better fighter because of the things he can now sense. He wonders if this lawyer can ‘see’ in a similar way.

 

Just as Bucky is about to suggest lunch, Steve speaks up, looking at him intently.

 

“What did Dugan say to you in the bar last night? As I was closin’ the tab.”

 

Bucky frowns. “I asked him where the other guys we knew in the mine were. He told me most of them are here in the city. Why do you ask?”

 

Steve’s gaze hasn’t wavered. “I dunno. Just seemed like you two were talkin’ bout me, is all.”

 

“What made you think that?” Steve’s observational ability is apparently something Bucky has underestimated; they were across a smoky bar, all slightly tipsy, when he and Dum-Dum had that conversation.

 

“Just you kept lookin’ over to me. I dunno,” he repeats, “just didn’t know if there was somethin’ you wanted to tell me.”

 

Bucky finds himself at a crossroads. He could tell Steve that Dugan had caught on to his feelings and confronted him about it, he could deflect and change the subject, or he could just lie outright.

 

Or, it seems, there could be a knock on the door that would save him from having to answer.

 

“Mr. Rogers?” A voice from the hallway calls. “There’s a - Mr. Murdock, here to see you.”

 

Steve scrambles to get up from the armchair and rushes over to the door. He opens it a sliver, to prevent the man outside from seeing Bucky on his bed with his top two shirt buttons undone. 

 

There’s a silent agreement between them that whatever it is that’s between them - whatever it might be, it’s enough that it might cause suspicion. It drives Bucky mad that they hide what they haven’t even acted on, but hell if he’s confident enough yet that Steve feels the same. 

 

Steve tells the man he’ll be down in a moment, and closes the door. “The lawyer’s here. Talk about good timing, huh?”

 

Bucky chuckles, pretending best he can that it’s not forced.

 

-

 

Murdock - as it turns out - already knew about the death of banking titan George Barnes and the subsequent disappearance of his son. He sits them down in one of the hotel’s private meeting rooms and tells them this. Not only that, but Steve was right - the man is completely blind, but masks it very well. 

 

“Tell me, James, where were you the night your father died?” Murdock opens with, and Bucky levels a glare at the man. He didn’t take the lawyer to be an idiot, and tells him so.

 

“It’s a simple question.”

 

“I was a year old, Mr. Murdock. I couldn’t tell you if I tried.”

 

“I don’t mean what age were you. I’m asking  _ where _ were you, that night.”

 

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Most likely in the servants’ quarters, or with my mother in the house. What relevance, may I ask, is my location on a winter’s night thirty-two years ago to the case?”

 

Murdock stands his ground, hands clasped relaxedly on top of the table. His derby hat rests next to him, and his walking cane leans up against the table beside his arm. He stares not quite at Bucky, but the determined air about him is every bit there.

 

“That’s just the thing. We know more about your location that night than we do your father’s.”

 

Bucky blinks, leaning back with his elbows on the chair’s armrests. “Excuse me?”

 

“There was never a body recovered. Never one found in the area, either. The records all state -”

 

Bucky lunges forward, sending the chair skidding backwards and slamming his right hand on the table. A sneer twists his lips into a snarl, his eyes alight with fury. Bucky leans forward menacingly, getting inches from the bastard’s face. How  _ dare  _ he? His father’s death was what threw his family into the gutter, and now some cheap lawyer is suggesting that it  _ never happened _ , that this is just one more indecency thrust upon him. 

 

“The  _ records _ ? Fuck the records, pal. I can tell ya exactly what happened after that night. Wanna hear about how my mother drowned herself in scotch? May not remember where I was when he died, but I sure do remember seeing my sister get a palm to the face for standing up for me to that  _ witch _ . He died, Mr. Murdock, and my mother suffered because of it. He’s dead. I can assure you that.”

 

Suddenly, Bucky feels a small hand in his back, and looks over to see Steve staring at him. The man raises a brow, and Bucky immediately feels less like he wants to tear someone’s throat out.

 

He looks over to the lawyer, who hasn’t betrayed any fear at Bucky’s outburst. 

 

“I wasn’t suggesting that he isn’t dead, Mr. Barnes. Simply that there’s a body missing.”

 

Bucky laughs, reaching back to pull his chair to its original place. “Missing body tends to mean either theft or waking up, and I highly doubt it’s the former.”

 

“But that’s not yet a distinction we can make. Did your father have enemies?”

 

That earns a scoff. “Of course. What wealthy businessman doesn’t?”

 

Murdock sighs. “Any who would’ve wanted him dead?”

 

“Probably about half of them.”

 

“Any who would’ve done it?”

 

Bucky’s gotta give it to the man. This lawyer is unshakeable in a situation where others would piss their pants, vigilant in the face of such rage. Bucky’s not a kind man to people he doesn’t fully trust. He’s prone to outbursts, and manic episodes, and everything in between, but this man is taking it in stride. Almost as if -

 

“Were you in the military, Murdock? Before you lost your sight?”

 

The lawyer smiles. “I think I should be the one doing the asking, Mr. Barnes.”

 

“It’s a simple question.” 

 

“No, I wasn’t. Never touched a firearm in my life.”

 

Bucky looks at him for a moment. “You’re one of the lucky ones, then.”

 

Murdock dips his head. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to fight, Mr. Barnes.”

 

That, right there.  _ That’s _ why Murdock isn’t shaking, why his eyes are fierce even though they can’t see. He’s playing along with Bucky’s game like he knows what each question will be, and Bucky respects him all the more for it. There’s a knowing in his words, like he knows what it is to be a warrior, even though he’s never picked up a gun in his life. Knows what it means to fight when your opponent doesn’t see you coming.

 

Bucky nods tightly, even though the man across from him can’t see it. “My father had his share of enemies. Bankers, rivals from college, even men he’d go hunting with who felt he took home better trophies than they did. I’ve read his journals, Mr. Murdock, and the only person who ever could have gone through with killing him was an investment banker in London. The two of them were like fire and ice, ever since my grandfather cheated his father out of a deal with the East India Tea Company. My grandfather fled to America after that, escaping the consequences of angering an empire of that size. It’s a feud my father had to deal with for his whole life and only ended when they found out he’d died and I had gone missing.”

 

“And the name of this family?”

 

Bucky frowns. He’s only ever read his father’s writings on the matter, which refer to the patriarchs by a nickname. 

 

“They call their head Kingpin, I don’t know the name.”

 

A strange smile crosses Murdock’s face. “Wilson Fisk ring a bell?”

 

Bucky freezes, then smiles just as Murdock is. His mind flashes with memories of the man’s shocked face, of Natasha appearing in the room like a ghost. “I do think we’re in business, Mr. Murdock.”

 

-

 

He and Steve left the hotel after Murdock departed. They had discussed the inner workings of the Barnes empire, and the poison that flows through its veins. There seems to be one common denominator: Fisk. The man runs crime in the city, Murdock told him. Now they’ve just got to find a way to corner him, make him even more scared than he already is, and eventually get him to turn over the bank to its rightful heir.

 

The pair are walking down the street, Steve with his tweed hat pulled low over his eyes, Bucky with his hair up in a ponytail. The hat, Steve told him, was his uncle's. There’s razors sewn into the lining above the brim, making the thing a weapon in and of itself. Steve said he’d learned that from a kid in school. Bucky didn’t ask by what method he learned it, but suddenly the thin white line above Steve’s left eye made sense.

 

They’re headed to the tailors’ shop, where their suits are ready for the second fitting. Then, and Bucky hasn’t told Steve this, they’re going to the barber’s shop so Bucky can get his hair cut. He debated doing it ever since they entered the city, but he figures he should get cleaned up if he’s going to be spending any more time among New York’s upper class. Additionally, it’s better for fighting to have less hair in the eyes. And Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see himself with properly cut hair. 

 

The stop by the Russos’ takes about an hour, and they’re told to come back in another three or four days. As they’re leaving, Bucky trots down the steps and turns exactly in the opposite direction of the hotel.

 

Steve stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at Bucky, who’s about three yards away.

 

“What?” Bucky asks, like Steve is acting strangely. A smile threatens to break through his faux confusion.

 

Steve puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head at Bucky like he’s looking at a misbehaving child. A small glint shimmers off the brim of his cap.

 

“The hotel’s behind me, Buck.”

 

“I know, Steve. I’ve got an appointment this way first.” He says, pointing with his gloved hand.

 

The shorter man sighs. “If this is some weird trick, you better cut it now.” He walks up to fall into step beside Bucky, though.

 

He wraps an arm around Steve’s thin shoulders playfully. “Now why would I do something like that?”

 

As soon as Bucky stops in front of the red, white, and blue pole, Steve looks at him with surprise.

 

“Really?”

 

Bucky exhales, suddenly a bit nervous. “You bet, pal.”

 

They walk in, and are immediately greeted by the masculine smell of aftershave and the sound of brooms against the hardwood floor. A man at the counter looks up from the paper, a cigarette dangling underneath a handlebar mustache. He eyes the two with an air of indifference, and looks back to his paper.

 

“What can I do for you fellows today?” He asks, face hidden.

 

Bucky walks up, Steve trailing behind to look at the images hung on the wall. As he approaches the counter, he can see further into the establishment. Two women and a burly man are each working on a customer, and a young boy sweeps as they trim.

 

“Just a trim for myself, as a matter of fact.”

 

The man looks over the paper again, and makes a noise. “ I’d say it’s ‘bout time, pal. You got 25 cents?”

 

Bucky reaches into his pocket and places a shiny silver quarter on the wood in front of the man, who then calls into the shop behind him.

 

“Ey, boss! Man here needs a serious trim, want ‘im now or later?”

 

One of the women, a blonde in a powder blue dress, wipes her hands on her apron. “Now’s good, Theodore. Send him up.”

 

Theodore jerks his thumb behind him. “You heard ‘er.”

 

Bucky walks up the stairs and takes the fourth, and last, seat available. Just as he’s done so, the customer the boss had been working on gets up. She walks over to Bucky, looking at him in the mirror.

 

“Golly, how long’s it been since your hair’s seen a pair of scissors?”

 

Bucky chuckles. “Too long.”

 

“What’re you looking for?”

 

“Anything but this.”

 

The woman nods, and gets to work.

 

After a washing his hair in a basin filled with warm water, she sets to cutting the long locks first. Then, she shapes and manipulates his hair to look more like a polished son of a New York banker rather than an outlaw in the Wild West. As comes with each payment, she shaves him with a straight edge, even though he’d done that this morning. Finally, she dries his head and face off with a warm, soft towel that feels like heaven. As he’s spun around to look in the mirror, Bucky almost doesn’t recognize the man in front of him.

 

He looks like he’s eighteen again. Ready to take on the world, fearless and naive. Except now, he’s anything but.

 

His hair is curlier than he remembers. His brown locks shine with the soap she used, and they rest artfully around his forehead. He reaches a hand up to feel his chin, and he knows this is a closer shave than he’s ever been able to get.

 

Bucky Barnes feels like a different person. He feels liberated, as strange as that is. As if letting go of looking like the Winter Soldier separates him from it, somehow. He knows he can’t run too far with that mindset, but for now it feels like a weight lifted off his back.

 

Bucky gets up and walks down to where Steve’s sitting. The younger man looks up just as Bucky spreads his arms.

 

“What do you think, Steve?”

 

Something fleeting passes over Steve’s eyes, something Bucky almost misses. But in the next second it’s gone, and Steve stands, grinning. 

 

“You look like a hundred bucks, pal.”

 

“Good, ‘cause that’s how I feel.”

 

They exit the shop with Bucky hollering a “thank you!” behind him and dropping a full dollar in the tip jar.

 

-

 

The two enter the hotel and Bucky feels like he’s run a hundred miles, even though they’ve only walked eight blocks. They were both silent the whole way.

 

They don’t bother even trying to go to different rooms, both entering Bucky’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

As soon as the door’s closed, Steve rounds on Bucky, looking almost angry.

 

“What’d you go and do that for, huh?”

 

Bucky is, to say the least, a bit shocked at this sudden change in mood.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“What am I -  _ what am I talking about!? _ You know damn well what I’m talking about, Barnes.”

 

Bucky feels like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Except there’s no jar, and he didn’t want any cookies. Something odd simmers below his navel, but he ignores it for the more pressing matters at hand, like how Steve is now waving his razor-cap at him.

 

“I really just don’t follow you here, Steve.”

 

The smaller man laughs. He’s acting like he’s a foot taller than he is, and Bucky’s gotta say, it suits him.

 

“First it’s the whole thing with Zola. The way you  _ acted _ , dear God, it should have been a crime in itself.”

 

Now Bucky’s really confused.

 

“Then you fought off a fuckin’  _ cougar _ , and healed the next day! That’s magic if I’ve ever seen it, Buck. Science can’t do that shit. That wasn’t no serum that did that; I  _ know  _ it.

 

“Then you go and look the way you do, and gaze at the city like it’s fuckin’ El Dorado, and what’s a guy to do, Buck? Not to mention the way you just  _ are _ , around everyone, and now  _ this  _ -”

 

Steve’s voice is getting more and more desperate as each second passes. The feeling in Bucky’s middle intensifies, and he spots a bead of sweat on Steve’s forehead. 

 

Suddenly, he understands what Steve’s been trying to say to him. And if he were a sentimental man, he could recall the exact moment that he began to feel the same. That goddamn teddy bear. Steve found that bear and thought enough of him to bring it out of hiding, returning to Bucky a piece of himself he’d thought he’d lost. And with all that he had lost, that was more than Steve could ever know.

 

So sue him, maybe he is a sentimental guy. Especially when it comes to Steve Rogers.

 

It’s more than just the way Steve’s hair glows when the sun hits it just right. It’s more than the sparkling blue of his eyes, reminding Bucky of jewels and the sky and warm summer days. 

 

It’s more than the man’s loyalty, but that’s a gift Bucky feels he’ll never deserve. It’s more than his feisty courage. It’s more than his understanding, his openness. Even though it’s all of those things, there’s something that makes Steve special, so different from anyone else.

 

It’s, when Bucky gets right down to the heart of it, the absolute goodness that emanates from the man. Steve Rogers is an undeniably good man.

 

The two of them are like day and night, warm and cool. Steve completes him, like a two-part puzzle. Bucky’s dark, icy cold past is thawed by Steve’s radiance, and Bucky provides a calming chill to the fires that burn in Steve’s eyes. It’s as if by destiny that the two of them have met.

 

It certainly feels like it.

 

Steve is still rambling when all of these things pass through Bucky’s thoughts. He looks at the blond, warmth enveloping his heart like an embrace. 

 

Narrowly missing the razor-hat still in Steve’s hand, Bucky reaches out, takes either side of Steve’s face in his palms, and interrupts him with a searing kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: my Tumblr URL has officially changed to [strangerbucky](http://strangerbucky.tumblr.com)! All the same stuff, just a new name. Come say hi!
> 
> Also: I've started watching the show Peaky Blinders - it's on Netflix, and for any fellow fans of period dramas (which all of you should be if you're reading this fic lmao), it's an absolutely fantastic story and depiction of British gangs in the early 1920s. Also possibly the source of inspiration for the razor-cap.
> 
> One last thing - for some reason AO3 likes to put spaces in-between italicized words and any punctuation that comes after them. If you saw that, just know it wasn't my doing lol.
> 
> As usual, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on tumblr! I take prompt requests and will love you forever if you follow me. ♥  
> http://strangerbucky.tumblr.com/


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